The editor and his reporter stood motionless, each man waiting for the other to move. George spoke first: “Van, perhaps I am not explaining myself. Big Jim wants my opponent to throw the fight. That way, when I win, he keeps all the money from bets placed against me. This whole operation was designed to take money from people who do not know the bout is rigged.”
“A good editor demands proof,” Van said. “Where’s your proof?”
“I have none, other than the word of Big Jim. That’s why I need Holly Quine.”
“I will let Holly know you called, but dangerous people are after her. Her location will remain classified.”
“Give me her location, Van!” George had reached the end of his patience. He grabbed his editor’s desk and flipped it over with a loud crash. Van’s papers and items scattered to the floor.
The editor was surprisingly calm. “Choogart, you are this close to feeling my boot in your face. Back away and go home.”
George couldn’t. He leapt over the overturned desk and grabbed Van by the collar. “Give me the address!” he yelled.
Van gasped out his words as George held his shirt. “You can’t … push … this editor around.” Then he stuck two ink-stained thumbs in George’s eye sockets.
George lessened his grip, which gave Van the space to wrap his own arms around George’s torso. The editor body-slammed George into the hard floor.
As the two men scrambled and grabbed at each other, Van tried to jab at George’s face. George was too quick, however, and his large fist caught Van’s. Using that momentum, George forced Van off the ground and rolled out of his way.
Both men stood up, already exhausted and breathing heavily. George tried to reason with the older man. “Van, please stop. We can go to see Holly together. But I need her information before tomorrow night.”
“Holly doesn’t need your help, George. She’s one of our best journalists. You’re a limey who can’t make a deadline. And I’m about to demonstrate why they call me a two-fisted editor.”
“You’re trying to bait me, Van. One last chance. I just want Holly’s address. For her protection.”
“Come and get it, boy.”
George leapt over the desk with his right foot extended. His heel connected with Van’s cheek. Blood exploded out of the side of the man’s face. Van stood recovering from the blow with his hands over his mouth. Blood mixed with the black ink stained on his hands.
George had the advantage. He leveled a ferocious punch into the man’s rib cage. A second later, he landed another punch at neck level. Van doubled over in pain. George exerted all the pressure he could on Van’s back, which brought him tumbling face-first to the floor.
Van didn’t make a sound after that. He was out.
George searched furiously through Van’s collections of papers, which were strewn all about the floor. He found bits and pieces of articles, but no other information. Then he noticed a small brown folder on the floor labeled SAFE HOUSES.
George opened the folder. There was one address. George removed the sheet with the information he needed and left the Times Building. His boss was still prone on the floor, unconscious. If there was ever a way George could explain this, he needed to start thinking now.
Just before he left the room, George’s eyes had returned to the Whitman quote that Van carried above his desk.
“The attitude of great poets is to cheer up slaves and horrify despots.”
Hopefully, someday, Van would understand. Sometimes, horrible acts were required to stand up against the worst despots.
George scoured the city until he found Holly’s safe house. It was a small room in a flophouse not that different from George’s. He entered silently and walked to the room specified in Van’s folder. He knocked on the door, and for a long while, no one came.
“Holly!” George yelled outside the room. “It’s me, George!”
Holly opened the door just a crack. “How did you find me here? Did Van Thomas send you?”
“Sort of,” George said. Now was probably not the time to tell her about the bloody duel between reporter and editor.
“Mr. Choogart, you’ve officially placed me and the rest of the Times organization in danger. Did you know Big Jim’s men searched my house?”
“They did the same to me. Look, Holly, I think I know the secret behind Big Jim’s underground fights.”
“You mean, how Big Jim is hustling his Tammany friends by staging fights and having the most likely loser win? You mean he’s paying his fighters to throw the fight, so Big Jim can collect money from the bets?”
George was astonished. “How did you know?”
“By checking the financial records of some of Big Jim’s friends. Mr. Choogart, this is very different from the Tweed operation. Tweed was stealing from the poor and giving to his friends. Big Jim is stealing from his friends and giving to himself.”
“Which means that once we expose him, all his friends will turn on him,” George said.
“That is very likely, Mr. Choogart. I assume you took this information from Big Jim himself?”
“Holly, I’ve been pretending to work for Big Jim in order to get closer, but now I’m scheduled in a fight against Al Stevens that I can’t lose.”
“Then you must find a way to lose.”
“Lose against Al Stevens?” George said. “He will beat me to death afterward.”
“Not if Big Jim is forcing him to throw the fight. He will pretend to fight hard, but in the end, his goal is to go down, to make money for Big Jim. If you thwart him, you thwart Big Jim, and the house of cards comes down.”
“Holly, there’s more. A man named Lew Mayflower also suspected that his fighters were being used. He helped me, and then he disappeared. Can you help me find him?”
“If he’s alive, I will need to check local prison or asylum records.”
“Do it. I have a fight to prepare for.”
George turned to leave.
“Good luck, Mr. Choogart,” Holly said. “Or should I say ‘bad luck’? In any case, try not to win.”
Easier said than done.
George spent the next day training for the fight. He was motivated by words Lew Mayflower had given him earlier: “The trick is to keep moving and keep him angry. Stevens is a mountain, but he’s slow. As long as you dodge his blows, you have the advantage.”
The problem was George did not want the advantage. He needed to lose the bout without arousing suspicion or being beaten to death by Al Stevens. As George practiced his jabs, hooks, and uppercuts, one question was on his mind: How can I win by losing?
The event arrived before George could figure out the answer. George returned to Big Jim’s house, where spectators were already starting to gather. He went down the long flight of stairs and entered Big Jim’s office. Big Jim was in the middle of a conversation with Al Stevens.
“Remember, Al, I want you to play hard for the first few minutes, but then you need to go down,” Big Jim said.
“But … but, Big Jim, sir! This man humiliated me! He almost beat me! There’s no way I can let that go.”
“Exactly why I’ve bet all my earnings on Krook, Al. Everybody in this audience expects you to seek revenge. In fact, I suspect many are looking forward to watching you beating him to death.”
“I know I am,” Al said.
“Maybe tomorrow. But not tonight.”
Both Big Jim and Al noticed George, standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Krook!” Big Jim exclaimed, gesturing for him to come into the office. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you Krook instead of Choogart.”
“Of course not, Big Jim.”
Al glared at his opponent and then turned to Big Jim. “Can’t believe I’m throwing a fight to this fool!”
“Quiet, Al. George, are you ready to perform?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s not waste any more time,” Big Jim said. “The people want to see a show, after all.”
The fight was about to begin. George and Al stood in their corners. Al glared at George with what were clearly murderous intentions. George was scared but tried not to show it.
Big Jim addressed the crowd: “Ladies and gentlemen. I would like to thank you for allowing me to postpone our previous fight. However, I always aim to please my audience, so I am proud to present Al Stevens vs. George Krook, redux!”
The crowd cheered. “Get ’im again, Al!” someone roared. Others shouted in approval. Not a lot of people seemed to be rooting for Krook. Clearly, most of the wealthy onlookers had placed their bets on the bigger man, just like Big Jim wanted.
“Begin the bout!” Big Jim shouted.
The crowd roared even louder, and the fight began.
George and Al Stevens approached each other from their corners. Al still had a vengeful, angry look on his face. It was taking all his self-control to keep from rushing George and beating him to death.
George recalled Lew Mayflower’s words one more time: “Keep moving; keep him angry.” He put up his fists in a defensive gesture.
Al was the first man to strike. He moved in and chopped at George’s shoulder. It connected. George’s upper body exploded with pain. It felt like a tap from a wrecking ball.
The crowd cried with pleasure at this first attack. Al moved in for another hit. Then, perhaps remembering Big Jim’s warnings, he backed off.
George kept his arms up and debated his next strategy. Al threw another punch, slow on purpose. George ducked and moved sideways. Then he aimed both fists into Al’s solar plexus. There wasn’t much power to his punch, but Al pretended to be in pain. George couldn’t tell anymore if his opponent was fighting to win or fighting to lose.
Al wasn’t much of an actor. The crowd almost couldn’t believe a big man like Stevens would double over so easily. His cry of “Ow!” was not convincing. Instead of cheering, people in the crowd began to murmur.
George knew now that his best chance was to make Al look as though he was deliberately losing the fight. Since Al could not throw any hard punches, George would not throw any, either.
The fighters circled each other for seconds, then a minute, then two minutes. Neither of them struck a blow. Al’s eyes were confused, as if asking, “Why don’t you come at me?”
The crowd soon became bored. People started to boo.
“C’mon, Al! Stop pussyfooting about!”
“Pound this fool senseless, Stevens!”
Al looked helplessly to Big Jim, as if he’d missed out on some secret instructions. Big Jim did not return the man’s gaze. Al was on his own. So was George.
George could see that Al was becoming angrier as the crowd continued to bait him. This gave him another idea. He began to join the audience in heckling the bigger fighter.
“C’mon, Al!” George said with a crafty grin, circling his opponent. “Why don’t you fight back?”
“Yeah!” someone else in the crowd said. “What’s going on here?”
George noticed Big Jim getting nervous. The man’s eyes darted back and forth.
“Did I hurt you too bad before?” George said. “Are you too scared to get up close?”
Al suddenly became very still. “What did you say?”
“Oh, nothing,” George replied. “Except you’re a coward.”
As if a switch went on in his head, Al had had enough.
“Come here, you maggot.” Al Stevens lunged forward.
George knew that now was the time to put his agility to use. Al began to toss deadly punches at the other fighter, punches that could knock a normal man flat. He aimed for George’s head, but George ducked. Al tried to get in closer and grab hold of George, but George slithered out of his grip. Al tried to swipe George’s legs out from beneath him, but George jumped out of danger. By this time, the audience was puzzled by the lack of action. And Big Jim did not appear to be happy, either.
“Try to touch me, you tosser,” George said. Al responded with a series of curse words, many of which George did not recognize.
The fight continued in this manner. Al threw punches with all his might, and George dodged them.
“I’m gonna kill you!” Al said, over and over, in between punches.
George could not keep dodging for long. Sooner or later, a hit would connect. Eventually, it happened. A wild blow from Al’s left fist knocked George sideways. The pain was immense, and George felt blood. He did not have time to dodge another strike.
Al hit George again. This time, George went down. He felt like his whole body was being consumed by fire. Al would not relent. He leaned over the smaller fighter and headbutted him in the face. Blood shot out of George’s mouth, covering Al’s forehead.
George knew that after one more blow, he’d be out. Perhaps he would die here. Had he chosen the right strategy? Everything depended on exposing Big Jim and exposing him now.
Al stood over George’s helpless body, laughing, rubbing his hands covered in blood. “You die now!” he said.
George braced himself for the end.
“Stop!” someone suddenly said. It was Big Jim. He had stood up without the help of his body man.
“Keep it together, Al!” Big Jim shouted. “You’re going to cost me thousands of dollars!”
A second too late, Big Jim realized what he had just said. The game had just been revealed. The audience, already unhappy with the fight, began to get feral.
“Whaddaya mean ‘thousands of dollars’?”
“Big Jim, are you playing us? Why did you stop the fight?”
Big Jim tried to explain. “Please, ladies and gentlemen …”
“You tried to skim money from us? Not even Tweed would do that.”
“You’re a dead man, Big Jim.”
“Get him!”
The crowd tried to attack Big Jim. Al Stevens exited the ring and rushed to his boss’s safety. He managed to hold off the angry crowd long enough to escort Big Jim back into his office. The door was locked. Big Jim and Al hid inside. George could faintly hear Big Jim yelling at Al for blowing their scheme.
“Get the police,” someone in the audience said.
“They’ll be on their way soon,” another said.
George was lying in the center of the ring, barely conscious. He could feel loose teeth rattling in his gums. He swallowed his blood and felt the urge to vomit. His limbs ached. He could barely move. But he had won the most important contest: exposing Big Jim. Not only had he won, but he had done so by not putting up a fight. As he had always known, violence was not the answer.
In the center of the ring, while an angry crowd ignored him, George managed a smile. Finally, he had a story worth telling.