‘They tell me your husband’s gonna be a contender – I tell you what, if you make sure I get a ringside seat, I’ll make sure you get the best rooms in this hotel, whaddya say, pretty lady? Is it a deal?’
Evelyne was speechless as the clerk laid two keys on the counter.
‘You got a kid with you? A boy, is it? I gotta boy, see, Sonny, I call him Sonny.’ A photograph was taken from his wallet and displayed with great pride, then replaced carefully so as not to crease it.
The clerk coughed nervously, and looked at his ledger. ‘Well, sir, there’s forty-eight and fifty-eight.’
‘How’s that suit ya, Mrs Stubbs? Two suites next to each other?’
Evelyne flushed and managed to say ‘thank you’ several times.
A nearby bellhop was poised on his toes in his eagerness to please. At a wave from the fat, manicured hand he was at Evelyne’s side.
‘Boy’ll help you carry your bags, ma’am, don’t you forget my tickets, just leave them at the desk . . .’
Evelyne almost curtsied with gratitude, and followed the bellhop out to the waiting taxi. Behind her she missed a strange, chilling scene.
The gentleman in the lilac suit leaned across the polished mahogany desk, swiftly grabbed the clerk by the lapel and pulled him halfway over the counter. ‘You treat a lady with discourtesy again and you’ll be found with your balls stuffed down your goddam throat, you pint-sized prick.’
The terrified clerk, released, gabbled an apology, and found himself lightly shoved against his letter-rack. ‘Make sure they get first-class treatment, flowers, fruit sent up, the whole bit, okay?’
‘Yes sir, Mr Capone, sir. Right away, sir.’
Capone stuffed a twenty-dollar bill in the frightened man’s pocket and moved off towards the bank of lifts. His bodyguard fell into step beside him, opened the lift doors and checked it over before Capone got in. As the last grey-suited man stepped inside, the folding gate was slammed on his hand. He gasped with pain, but made no other sound.
‘Check ’em out. Who’s with the broad, get me the whole low down on ’em.’
As the lift glided up to his private floor, Capone adjusted his silk cravat in his reflection in the polished brass control panel. He was in a good mood. He began to sing. His voice was strong, not quite Beniamino Gigli, but no one would dare say he wasn’t at least on a par.
Chapter 23
A week after Freedom’s arrival in Chicago there was still no fight arranged. Ed was beginning to think Sir Charles was out of his depth. He had to admit the influx of contenders for the heavyweight title didn’t make bouts all that easy to organize. Sir Charles assured Ed that he was trying.
‘I have to look after Freedom’s interests – not quite so cut and dried as we had anticipated. There are a lot of contenders, and Freedom’s nowhere near the top bracket. Thing I don’t want is that he has to plough his way through every boxer arriving in the States.’
Ed sighed. Running up hotel bills, trying to keep Freedom happy, was getting him down. Sir Charles poured Ed a brandy. ‘I have a meeting with two chaps who may be able to guide us. They made Dempsey – Jack Kearn and Tex Rickard.’
Ed’s jaw dropped, his eyes sparkled. Together, these two men had taken boxing into million-dollar gates, and promoted Dempsey into that league. Word was out that they were both millionaires. Rickard had been a cowboy, a small town marshal, a prospector and a honky-tonk proprietor, and the ballyhoo he created around the fights earned Rickard, Kearn and Dempsey the nickname of the ‘Golden Triangle’. Ed rubbed his hands excitedly.
If they could get those two on their side, they would be made.
Ed bounded into the hotel room. The women were out shopping, and Freedom had been left to babysit. He snapped, unpleasantly, ‘Who am I going to fight? Sir Charles arranged a bout for me yet? You tell him if I have to travel for a fight, I need time to train, to prepare. You tell him this waitin’s driving me spare, mun?’
Ed pulled up a chair, took out a crumpled piece of paper and began to read out the awesome list of fighters pouring into Chicago from all over the world – Knud Hansen of Denmark, To m Heeney from New Zealand, Paolino of Spain, Luis Angel Firpo from Argentina – not counting all the American fighters who wanted a crack at the title. That list was even longer.
Ed scratched his head. Their only hope was to get Dempsey on their side and Dempsey’s men in their corner. With such backing they could bypass more than twenty contenders because Sharkey or Schmeling had already beaten them. For Freedom to work his way through the list would be madness. Ed shoved the paper under Freedom’s nose. ‘Look at ’em, count the names . . . But ’is Lordship’s gonna get some help, see the three main contenders.’
Freedom interrupted, already over-eager, ready to take all three on. ‘Who are they?’
‘Johnny Risco is one, then there’s the European titleholder, Max Schmeling, and, last but not least, the one they say will take the title, Jack Sharkey.’
Freedom paced the room. ‘Can’t Sir Charles get me a bout with one of them?’
Ed shook his head, becoming impatient with Freedom’s impatience. ‘That’s what I’m tryin’ ter tell yer. All these other boxers, they want a bout, but it can’t be arranged. The top three have fought most of these geezers, can’t I get it through yer brain? It’s like a knockout competition, any of these names wot’s listed ’ere gets through all the prelims – then, then, they can try for the big three.’
Freedom slumped into a chair. ‘So what do I do? Sit here?’
‘No, son, you get down to that gym an’ work out like you never done before, ’cause you gotta be ready at all times. We get a chance of a good bout we grab it wiv both ’ands, an’ we pray ter God a bit of the Golden Triangle gold rubs off on us.’
Freedom blinked. Ed could almost see the wheels turning in his head. He repeated, ‘Golden Triangle’, then looked at Ed. It was dawning on him exactly who Rickard and Kearn were.
‘Yeah, my idols. An’ Sir Charles is pullin’ strings ter get ’em on our side, so do as I say an’ we’ll get yer a fight.’
A week went by without any news, and the hotel bills were mounting. Freedom was becoming restless, he had nothing but aggravation at the gym, where they referred to him as ‘the black’, and he had almost got into a street brawl. A car passed him and Evelyne as they strolled arm-in-arm, and the occupants had shouted ‘white trash’ at her. He had chased the car in hapless fury.
He felt caged in the hotel, and Ed worried himself sick. He recognized the signs and knew that Freedom needed a bout soon. He also needed a change of scenery.
At long last there was progress. Sir Charles received a cable from Tex Rickard, cordially inviting them to visit him at his villa in Miami. Freda, Evelyne, and Edward, along with all their luggage and a very disgruntled, moody Freedom, left Chicago to take up residence in a small, rented villa in Miami. The villa was right on the ocean front, and Freedom began to relax a little. Sir Charles had instructed Ed to stand by, hire a car and wait. Ed was on tenterhooks, practising driving the car up and down the drive. He almost ran his future champion down as he came out of the villa swinging his towel at the motor. ‘How long, Ed? How long does he want us to wait here?’
Ed pulled on the handbrake. ‘That was a bloody silly thing to do. I could ’ave run yer over.’
Freedom glowered. ‘You tell me how long mun? eh?’
Ed went red in the face, shouting back, ‘I dunno, do I? Why don’t you get on the beach, run, spend yer time gettin’ fit; just fer God’s sake stop asking me when-when-when-when. It’ll be when Sir Charles says, that’s all I ruddy know.’
Freedom took off down the beach and Ed hit the steering wheel, shouting at himself now. ‘When you bastard, when? . . . when?’
Ed rushed into the villa bellowing for Freedom at the top of his voice. Freda was inspecting the fridge with delight, having never seen one before. ‘They’re on the beach, Ed . . . Ed, just look at this, it makes cubes of ice for the drinks.’
Ed was already rushing out on the beach waving his arms in the air. Evelyne and Edward were at the water’s edge, laughing at the little waves. Freedom was doing press-ups.
‘Freedom . . . come on, we got to go an’ meet ’em all now . . . Now, come on, lad . . . Here, wrap this round yer neck, don’t go gettin’ cold.’
Freedom took the towel and flicked it at Ed. ‘That’ll take some doin’, mun, it’s blazing hot.’ He went off at a fast run towards the villa, Ed following on his stubby little legs as quickly as he could.
By the time Ed collapsed on the stairs, Freedom was already taking a shower. He could hear Freedom whistling, taking his time. Ed puffed his way up the stairs and paced up and down outside the bathroom until Freedom came out, stark naked. He was deeply tanned, the outline of his shorts showing lighter. Ed hovered at the bedroom door while Freedom dressed. It never ceased to amaze him how beautiful his lad was, like a statue, every muscle clearly defined.
‘What yer doin’ now? We can’t keep these fellas waitin’. Gawd almighty, you do nothin’ but moan about wantin’ a fight, now when we got to go an’ talk about it, what you doin’?’
Freedom beamed at him as he pulled on a shirt. Ed heard Freda below mixing drinks in a new-fangled machine. ‘Gawd love us, git yer pants on . . . Freda? Don’t you go cookin’ nothin’, we’re on our way out, at least, we will be when this bloody lad gets his gear on. Now, come on . . .’
At long last they were on their way.
Ed parked the rented car outside the ranch-style house, and he and Freedom were led on to a shaded patio by Kearn himself. There, already seated with Sir Charles and waiting to meet them, was the second point of the Golden Triangle, Tex Rickard. He rose to his feet and they were introduced. He was wearing a cowboy hat, tooled leather boots and a large silver and turquoise buckle on his belt. He was a big, expansive man, and a man who got immediately on to familiar terms. Ed loved him. Sir Charles was looking cool and suave in a white linen suit.
The men were drinking beer and their cigar smoke drifted up into the clear, bright sky. Ed and Tex Rickard were talking nineteen to the dozen, as they had been all afternoon, of boxers, of fights. Rickard gave a blow-by-blow account of the Tunney– Dempsey fight, the bout known as the ‘fight of the long count’. The new rule was that when a boxer was knocked down, his opponent had to go straight to a neutral corner. Only then could the count begin. If he didn’t move, the referee would not start the count.
‘Ed, ma boy, that count must have been well over sixteen, I was out of ma goddam mind! I screamed for Jack to get into the corner – he’d forgotten, see, in the heat of the moment. Jeez, I’m tellin’ ya, I wanted to get in the goddam ring myself . . . so of course, Tunney got a second wind, who wouldn’t after sixteen seconds?’
Ed turned to Freedom and jerked his thumb towards Rickard, telling him to pay close attention to what the man, the man, was saying. Freedom leaned forward and listened as the two men began to discuss the last Tunney fight, then relaxed again. He had seen the film, knew the fight punch by punch. Freedom was beside himself. There was Ed with Rickard, apparently going over every detail of every fight that had ever taken place in the USA, and on his other side Sir Charles and Kearn talking non-stop about aeroplanes.
The real reason they had all gathered at Kearn’s was to discuss a bout for Freedom, to make him a contender for the championship, but so far no one had said a word about it. In fact, they never brought the subject up at all.
Freedom was moody, his temper fraying. With a terrible grinding of gears they stopped at the villa, and as they climbed out of the car, Freedom began to question Ed. ‘So when do I fight, Ed, what went on? They going to help me get a bout or not?’
Ed puffed on a Cuban cigar, a gift from his new friend, Tex, and waved his hand majestically. ‘These things take time, son, got to be worked out, an’ Sir Charles is going ter have ter give them a percentage of the gate, see, so we don’t want ter rush fings. They want ter see you work out tomorrow at a friend’s place . . . Anyway, did I tell you what Tex told me about when he was gambling in Paris, France?’
‘I don’t give a bugger about his gambling, I want a fight and I want it soon, Ed.’
That night, Freedom felt Evelyne’s belly, and they both agreed it was going to be another boy. They discussed names, and Evelyne decided she would like to call him Alexander. Freedom muttered that it was a name for a woman, and she threw a pillow at him. He would have let her call the baby Freda if she’d wanted to.
The sun had tanned Evelyne’s pale skin and lightened her long red hair. He had never seen her so beautiful. The good life suited her, and he was determined it wouldn’t stop – not now, not ever.
He slipped from the bed and lifted the blind. The night was dark and the sea was lit by a perfect, brilliant moon. He clenched his hands, his frustration was building to bursting point. He couldn’t sleep at night, and he spent all day waiting, always waiting.
At breakfast the following morning, Freedom had already been up for hours, running himself into exhaustion. He ate in silence, and the atmosphere grew tense. Ed was eating the most enormous platter of sausage and pancakes, and his paunch was growing as fast as Evelyne’s pregnancy.
‘Be patient, fings is goin’ just right.’
That was it. Freedom banged his fist on the table. ‘Sittin’ around eatin’, mun, you call that going just right? I came here to fight, so far I done nothin’ . . . maybe it’s not just Sir Charles out of his depth, mun, maybe you don’t know what you’re doin’ . . . Get me a fight, that’s all I want.’
As if on cue, a Western union boy rang their bell and handed over a telegram. Rickard had requested another meeting.
Ed and Freedom departed with the usual crashing of gears, Ed refusing to speak to Freedom until he apologized. Evelyne sighed, Freedom’s moods were getting to them all, apart from Freda, who spent most of her time with her nose in the fridge eating all the goodies she had discovered on their trips into town.
‘I’ll take Edward down to the beach.’
‘Freda, what if he loses? If he gets a bout and loses, we are all here, living in luxury – who’s paying for it?’
Freda sat down at the table with her raspberry ripple icecream. ‘Don’t talk that way. Of course he will win, don’t ever speak like that.’
But Evelyne couldn’t rid herself of her foreboding. She knew Freedom was getting dangerously impatient. Freda waved her spoon at Evelyne. ‘Maybe today they’ll know about a fight, and you must not let Freedom see you are worried, promise me . . . have some raspberry ripple.’
Evelyne shook her head, collected the bucket and spade and, with Edward pulling excitedly at her hand, went down to the beach.
Ed drove through the gates of the luxurious ranch-style villa. This time Freedom hardly gave a second glance, already bored by Ed’s non-stop description of all the Dempsey fights. Only when a servant led them into a gymnasium did he perk up. Everything was geared to boxing – a ring built in the centre of the vast, sprung floor. The servant showed them the dressing room, gesturing to Freedom to help himself, and then bowed out, leaving him to stare at the rows of gloves, robes and boots.
‘Go on, get a work out, I’ll take a stroll round the stables. I got a surprise for you, you wait. Go on, get dressed.’
Freedom was hammering hell out of a punch bag when the gym doors swung open. A tall, elegant man in a pale cream linen suit, his black hair slicked back, leaned on the doorframe. A large diamond ring glittered on his little finger.
‘Carry on, son, let’s have a look at you. Go on, hit that bag.’
Puzzled, Freedom blinked. Ed appeared behind the man and stared in adoration, near tears. As the man moved into the centre of the room, Freedom looked at him again and realized who he was. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and shirt with a silk tie, and a handkerchief placed just so in his breast pocket, but no amount of fancy tailoring could hide his muscular body. This was none other than Dempsey himself.
&nbs
p; Dempsey’s polished shoes made no sound on the pine floor. ‘How ya doin’, Freedom, glad to meet you.’
The hand was like a rock . . . so this was the ‘Manassa Mauler’, the iron man. Ed clutched Dempsey’s hand, and for one awful moment it looked as if he were going to kiss it. Dempsey began to peel off his jacket, his perfect white teeth gleaming. ‘Let’s go to it, son, I need a work out.’
It took quite a lot of persuasion for Dempsey to get Freedom into the sauna, as Freedom had never been in one and didn’t like it at all.
‘Sweats out all the impurities, all the rage over here, they’ll get to England in about twenty years. America’s the place, this is the land, here, I love this goddam country.’
He poured pine essence on to the bed of hot coals and sat on one of the benches. His body was flabby, but still in better shape than most men of his age. He thumped his belly and roared his deep, bellowing laugh.
‘This is the good life, I earned it, I earned it and now I’m living, really living . . . hey, you married?’
They both wore short white towels wrapped around their hips, and Dempsey seemed very proud of his ‘manhood’. He snorted when Freedom told him he was married, and said marriage was the worst contract he had ever got himself into.
‘An’ that toff with the enlarged eyeball, your – what?’
Freedom smiled at his reference to Sir Charles, and said that he was his so-called promoter.
‘They’ll have him for dinner, you stayin’ ta eat? Good, I’ll make us a barbecue, one you won’t forget, an’ we’ll have something wet to go with it.’
He was referring to the prohibition order, and when they were dressed they made their way to the patio for the barbecue, passing a very well-stocked bar. Prohibition hadn’t, it appeared, affected the ex-world champion.
Ed was grinning like the Cheshire cat, his tête-à-tête with Tex Rickard had obviously lasted all afternoon. Dempsey made no reference to Freedom’s fights, but they had worked out hard together in the afternoon and Freedom had been aware of the close scrutiny he had been under.
The Legacy (1987) Page 46