The streetcar was so crowded the conductor had to keep asking people to move back, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to steer.
Reynolds stood near the rear, somebody’s elbow pressed against his rib, somebody’s shoulder against his shoulder blades. A stout woman’s huge picture hat covered half of his face.
When the streetcar finally stopped, he was glad for the two-block walk to the arena. His legs needed stretching and he needed fresh air. He also needed to calm himself. The closer the time came to the shooting, the more anxious he became. He wished he had not agreed to this job, but backing out was the sort of thing he just couldn’t do. Word would get around, and then people would begin to wonder if he would back out on them.
He bought a ticket and entered the carnival-like arena. A furious rumbling shook the wooden bleachers, the effect of so many people talking, shouting, screaming, laughing, cursing. He sat down and bought peanuts from a vendor. He dropped the shells on the bleacher and crunched them with his shoe. He stared down into the empty ring.
He still wished he had not agreed to this.
“You think he’s going to kill him?”
Reynolds was distracted from his thoughts. A petite woman in a pink summer dress and a white straw hat held down by a gauzy piece of pink chiffon stared at him.
“You think he’s going to kill him?”
“Oh. The fight.”
“Yes. The fight.”
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t actually follow boxing all that carefully.”
“Well, I do and I think he’s going to kill him. Victor’s going to kill the colored man, I mean.”
“It’ll probably be exciting.”
He knew immediately that his style of response did not please the woman. She glared at him as if he were some kind of circus freak and then turned back to her female companion.
He wished he had not agreed to do this.
The woman was now whispering something about him to her companion. Her companion smiled.
Blushing, Reynolds stood up. Now was a good time to check out the office, figure a way in and a way out.
When he turned back to the woman to see if he might not have been imagining her whispered insults, he saw that they were now both smirking.
Suddenly he became self-conscious about the way he moved. He tried to be more purposeful in his motions.
God, he wished there were not so many people out here.
God, he wished it were not so hot out here.
God, he wished he had not agreed to do this.
She took a carriage from the hotel. She liked the smart way the sleek black horse in traces picked up and put down its shoed feet. She liked the smart way the driver cracked his whip just over the horse’s back so that the animal wasn’t hurt in any way.
She sat back on the tufted blue silk seat and watched the buildings of the business district give way to small frame houses and then to real mansions, with wide stone gates and windbreaks of firs offering privacy.
She was aware that the driver turned back every minute or so for a glance at her. He was smitten, obviously. But he was also leery. He was white and he obviously suspected that she was not. Still, he could not quit staring.
It was hot in the carriage. She fanned herself with a black, Spanish-style hand fan.
Images of her brother filled her mind.
When he was seven.
When he was nine.
When he was dead there in the ring.
The driver was staring at her again. “You all right, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You look troubled.”
She smiled. “I am troubled. I’m impressed that you were sensitive enough to notice.”
The man flushed. “It’s just your face—well, it’s easy to see what’s in your soul, is what I’m trying to say.”
“So you believe in the soul?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“A lot of men don’t.”
“I was raised Methodist.”
“That’s odd.”
“What is, ma’am?”
“So was I.”
“Methodist?”
“Yes. And most people think we’re all Baptists.”
“‘Us,’ ma’am?”
“Yes. Us.” She paused, giving her word all the dramatic power she could summon. “Coloreds.”
She watched his eyes. She was not disappointed. He looked as if he’d just suffered a sharp kick to the stomach. “You’re colored?”
“You mean you didn’t guess?”
“No, ma’am.” He sounded miserable.
“You wanted me, didn’t you?”
“Ma’am?”
“You desired me, didn’t you, until you found out I was colored?”
He turned his head back to the street.
She wasn’t sure why she’d wanted to hurt him. It was just this need that came on her from time to time. She needed to feel someone else’s hatred sometimes. It revived her, brought her in touch with herself again. The hatred of others was a definition of all the things she could never be, no matter how badly she might want to be. The hatred of others told her very definitely who and what she was.
She said, “I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”
But he wouldn’t turn around now. He would take her out to the boxing arena and deposit her and leave as soon as possible.
“I really am sorry,” she said. “You seem like a decent man, and I shouldn’t have hurt your feelings.”
The horses stepped smartly forward.
The day was very hot.
She wondered if, in the end, she would have enough courage for what she had ahead of her.
“Do you plan on killing him, Mr. Sovich?”
The kid had red hair and freckles and wore a cheap, loud suit and spoke an octave higher whenever he got nervous, as now. The older reporters gathered in Victor Sovich’s dressing room let the kid talk because he was kind of funny to watch.
“Son, that’s not a decent thing to ask me.” Victor Sovich winked at the older reporters. “I just go out there and do my job, and if the boy happens to fall and not get back up, there isn’t much I can do about that, is there?”
“Do you regret killing those other colored people?”
“Now you’re getting serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Victor Sovich, bare chested and fitted out with fine leather gloves, smiled toward John T. Stoddard, who stood in the corner. “There’s only one type of question Mr. Stoddard has asked me not to answer.”
“What kind is that, sir?”
“The serious kind.”
Several of the older reporters laughed.
But the redheaded kid persisted. “Do you ever get scared?”
“Me?”
“Do you ever think maybe you could be the one who gets killed?”
Sovich offered the onlookers another wink. “Maybe you know something I don’t, kid. You think I should be scared?”
“No, sir,” the kid said, writing something on the tablet he held out before him. “I just wonder if it ever crossed your mind.”
“Do you have any idea how many fights I’ve had?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have any idea how many of those fights I’ve won?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I’ve had one hundred two fights and I’ve won one hundred two fights. Now, does that sound like a reason for me to get scared?”
The kid gulped. He had a huge Adam’s apple. “No, sir. I guess not.”
John T. Stoddard nodded to Victor and left the dressing room. He hated Victor’s swaggering before the press. Victor swaggered enough as it was.
He felt grateful for the heat and the crowd. The crowd was invigorating.
He walked the aisles between the bleachers, noting how everything was going smoothly, from the vendors to the ice tents. After the “robbery,” he was going to have a great deal of money.
One thing remained. He needed to get his son out of the office. He did not want Stephen there when the shooting started.
He headed back for the office, and it was then he saw Reynolds.
John T. Stoddard knew immediately that he had made a terrible mistake counting on Reynolds. Severe dark rings encircled the lower part of the man’s eyes. His entire body seemed to twitch.
John T. Stoddard watched as Reynolds went inside the office building, obviously preparing for the “robbery” later this afternoon.
The door opened and a tall, gray-haired man stood there. “Help you?”
Reynolds couldn’t find his voice. “Uh, I was just wondering if there was a toilet in here.”
“There are latrines outside.”
“I just wondered if there was a toilet in here.”
“Afraid we can’t help you.”
“All right. Thank you.”
When the door closed, Reynolds fell back against the wall. His chest heaved. His head pounded.
Could he go through with it?
He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He should run, hide. He should not be seen anywhere near this office.
But somehow he couldn’t move. He tried, but he couldn’t.
“Jesus Christ,” a harsh voice said, and when he opened his eyes there was John T. Stoddard. “You’re supposed to be a professional.”
He swallowed, wanting to defend his honor. “I am a professional, Mr. Stoddard. A professional thief.”
“It’s too late for me to get somebody else. I’ve got to depend on you.”
“Couldn’t I just knock him out?”
“You knock Guild out? Don’t be absurd. You’d never get that close.” He shook his head. “Listen, you miserable little bastard. We had an agreement, and I expect you to stick to it. Do you understand?”
“I’m going to be all right.”
“You should see yourself—”
“I’m going to show you that I’ve got a lot more grit than you think.”
“—pasty white and dark little eyes, and your left hand keeps shaking and—”
Reynolds moved away from the wall. “I said I’m going to show you, Mr. Stoddard. I’m going to show you.”
He wasn’t sure what he was talking about and felt he was just babbling, but he was tired of Stoddard’s scorn. That was for sure. So now he tried to make himself appear as strong as possible.
“You’ve got a gun?” Stoddard asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s loaded?”
“I’m not a child, Mr. Stoddard.”
“It’s loaded?”
“Yes, it’s loaded.”
“And you’re ready?”
“I’m ready, Mr. Stoddard. Yes, I’m ready.”
“Then don’t let me down, Reynolds. Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
After leaving the building, Reynolds walked over to a latrine and started vomiting. The stuff was orange. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see.
Behind him a hick voice said, “Whooee! Whatever that little guy is drinkin’, I don’t want no part of!”
Rough male laughter filled Reynolds’s ears.
He lurched from the latrine and walked with as much dignity as he could muster back toward the bleachers.