The referee was a man named Macatee. Stoddard had requested a man named Simek but Simek was sick with gout.
Stoddard knew nothing about Macatee, whose first name was George, and this made him nervous. He stood inside Macatee’s dressing room, watching a bluebottle fly perch at an angle on the windowsill.
Outside the open window four women in crisp summer dresses carried placards back and forth. Obviously they knew this was where Macatee was getting ready. They wanted him to understand their seriousness.
Stoddard tried a nervous smile. “You can’t escape them these days. They’re in every town with more than one hundred people.”
“Oh, they’re all right.”
“They are?”
“Sure. They just don’t like to see people get hurt. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
Stoddard continued to smile. “I like to see men get hurt. When men get hurt, I have a good payday. So do you.”
Macatee had been shining his black boots with a coarse-bristled brush. The room they were in was smaller than many closets. There was a chair, a bureau with a mirror, and a spittoon.
As they passed by the window this time, the ladies leaned in toward Macatee. One of them, a redhead in an emerald-green picture hat, waved.
Macatee waved back.
“You know her?” Stoddard said.
Macatee, a tense little man with freckles on a white bald head, nodded and said, “I should. She’s my wife.”
“You have a wife who protests boxing?”
“It’s her right. Just as it’s my right to referee.”
“Oh, I’m glad I came over here, Mr. Macatee. To see you, I mean.”
“You are?”
“I certainly am. Do you know how many people are going to be here today?”
“How many?”
“The estimate is four thousand now.”
Macatee whistled. He took a cigar from his shirt pocket, ran a lucifer along the front of the bureau. “Four thousand. That’s the biggest sporting event this town has ever seen.”
“That’s one of my concerns.”
“What is?”
“That the event lives up to the billing.”
Macatee looked at him with eyes as green as his wife’s hat. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Stoddard?”
“They tell me you’re a good referee.”
“I try to be.”
“But I wouldn’t want you to be too good.”
Macatee blew heavy cigar smoke in Stoddard’s direction. The blue-tailed fly was noisy in the corner. “Wish I had a swatter,” Macatee said. “That goddamn thing’s driving me crazy.”
“You ever hear of the Sorgenson fight?”
“Sorgenson?”
“Over in Omaha about four years ago. Hmmm. Four years ago exactly this summer.”
“I think I’ve heard of it. But what about it?” Macatee went back to shining his boots with the brush. He wore a short-sleeve shirt. He might be a small man, but he had outsize biceps for his size.
“Sorgenson was supposed to knock out his opponent pretty early in the fight. Everybody expected it. But Sorgenson was so good that he put the other fellow to the canvas in the first round.”
Macatee whistled again. He didn’t look up from his brushing. “Guess I should pay more attention to this Sorgenson.”
“That isn’t the point of the story.”
“Then what is?” He still didn’t look up. He seemed fascinated with getting the oxfords to shine perfectly.
“It’s what happened after the first round. Sorgenson ran back in the ring at the top of the second and really started hitting the other man. Knocked him down again. Knocked him down so hard that the referee got scared.”
“It can get scary in there.”
“The referee stopped the fight.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Maybe you don’t. He stopped the fight and a riot started.”
“A riot?”
“It was a hot day, just like today. There was a huge crowd, just like this one. One man was predicted to win, just as Victor is supposed to win today. But the crowd still wanted a match. They didn’t want to see it end too soon. They rioted. They took over the town and made it impossible for decent people to be anywhere near them for the night.”
For the first time Macatee stopped his brushing. He raised his very green eyes to Stoddard. “You don’t want to see this stopped today?”
“Not too soon.”
“What if the colored boy gets hurt real bad?”
“He knows what he’s getting into.”
Macatee studied Stoddard’s face for a long minute. “That story wasn’t true, was it, Mr. Stoddard? About Sorgenson?”
“It was meant to illustrate a point.”
“But it’s not true.”
“Not strictly speaking.”
“Meaning there was no Sorgenson?”
“No.”
“And no Omaha fight?”
“Not exactly.”
“And no riot?”
“No, no riot.”
Macatee had inhaled on his cigar. He was still studying Stoddard. “You’re worried I’m going to lose you money, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Macatee, I am. Especially now that I know your wife is carrying a placard.”
Macatee picked up the shoe brush once again. He returned to his polishing. “I’m not going to let him get killed.”
“Meaning what exactly, Mr. Macatee?”
“Meaning I’ll stop the fight before it goes too far.”
“Afraid of your wife?”
Macatee tapped his bald head. “Afraid of my conscience. I don’t want to be responsible for a man’s death. Even if he’s colored.”
“Just because a man gets hurt real bad, that doesn’t mean he’s going to die or anything like it.”
“I know you want a show, Mr. Stoddard, and I intend to help give you a show. Just not at the expense of a man’s life.”
“You’ll stop the fight, then?”
“When it’s appropriate. I’m going to keep watching the colored boy’s face close. When he looks like he’s had enough, I stop the fight.”
“The colored fellow wants to make some money. Remember, he’s getting paid for every round he can get through. He’d sure appreciate all the money he could earn.”
“It’s nice you’re so concerned for him,” Macatee said. “The colored fellow, I mean.”
“There’s no call to get sarcastic.”
“The mayor’s office hired me because they don’t want the responsibility of a death on their hands. If they hadn’t hired me, or someone else with my attitude, Mr. Stoddard, you wouldn’t have gotten your permit. A boxer dying may be all in a day’s work to you, but not to the mayor’s office. You have a fellow die in a ring like that and the state newspaper starts to paint you as an uncivilized place, and once that starts then businesses get real nervous about settling in your town, and pretty soon, before you know it, you’ve become a little fork in the road again and nothing more.”
“That crowd’s going to get awful mad if they don’t see a fight.”
“In Houston, I hear a crowd took its money back.”
Stoddard said, “I’m just asking you to be fair, Mr. Macatee.” “How about if his eyes roll back in his head? Is that a fair time to stop the fight, Mr. Stoddard?”
“Eyes rolling back don’t always mean anything.”
“How about if he starts strangling on his own blood from his mouth being cut up so bad inside? Is that a fair time to stop the fight, Mr. Stoddard?”
“He takes a little salt water, he’ll be fine.”
“Or how about if his arms start twitching because his nervous system has been damaged? Is that a fair time to stop the fight, Mr. Stoddard?”
“He could be just arm-tired.”
Macatee put the shoe brush down and dropped his leg from the chair. He stood up straight, touching a hand to a crick in his back. “I’m sure glad you’re not going to be referee, Mr. Stoddard. You know that?”
Stoddard slid the white envelope from his pocket. He dropped it on the chair. “I like to give referees a little bonus. Before the fight.”
Macatee stared down at the envelope. He leaned over and picked it up. He hefted it, estimating the number of bills inside. He handed it back unopened to Stoddard. “I don’t believe in bonuses, Mr. Stoddard. Especially before a fight.”
A minute later, after stuffing the envelope back inside his pocket, Stoddard was gone.