General Honeycombe had been right, thought Flanagan, as he stood surveying the crowds milling around him on Coogan’s Flats, just outside Springfield, Illinois. Hugh, Dixie and Kate stood at his side.
The appearance of the Trans-Americans at Honeycombe’s fair had probably doubled the attendance. Flanagan wrinkled his nose and frowned. He should have held out for more back in St Louis, he knew that now. But it was too late for tears; in less than an hour Morgan would face Professor Anderson’s fighter and Flanagan again felt that sick, empty feeling that he had experienced back in St Louis when Thurleigh had staggered off after Silver Star on the final lap.
He nodded to Hugh. “See you at the booth in half an hour. Don’t forget you’re acting as second for Mike. We got a lot riding on this.”
Flanagan left them to wend his way through the crowds towards the booth.
Kate Sheridan nibbled at her candy floss, her left arm loosely round Dixie’s shoulder. That morning a crowd of over ten thousand people had watched a programme of handicap foot-races and novelty events featuring the Trans-Americans and local athletes and civic dignitaries. Kate herself had run a six-minute mile, beating a burly local sheriff on the post on the rough track improvised in the field beside the fairground.
Now the thousands attracted by the appearance of the Trans-Americans had transferred their attentions to the fair, and over in a grassy natural bowl outside the main fairground area, picnicking families were already beginning to assemble to hear Doc Cole’s Chickamauga spiel later in the evening.
Hundreds of sun-blackened Trans-Americans, easily identifiable in their running vests and shorts, threaded their way through the vast crowds, signing autographs for eager children as they walked. Others held court to clusters of ethnic groups, French, German, Finnish and Chinese, gesticulating and jabbering in their native tongues. Yet others delivered impromptu talks from the stages of shows as varied as Ching the Elastic Man and the Octopus People of the China Sea.
Turning, Dixie saw Carl Liebnitz approaching them, accompanied by Pollard, and smiled her recognition. Liebnitz could respond only with a half-smile. His day’s intake of root beer, ice cream and popcorn, three rides on the roller-coaster and two on the Krazy Train, had been sufficient to convince him that the days, if not the desires, of his youth were over.
“You reckon Doc Falconer’s got some Selzer stowed away somewhere?” he asked.
Dixie pointed behind her to the Trans-America caravan a hundred yards away.
“The Doc’s back there,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll have some handy, Mr Liebnitz.”
The journalist touched his hat and gave a weak grin before making his way towards the caravan.
“Looks like Mr Liebnitz isn’t too well,” she observed.
“No,” said Pollard, interrupting his demolition of a giant raspberry ice-cream cone. He removed from his head a paper hat which bore the request “Hold me, honey” and used it to fan his face. “I reckon Carl’s finding that a sixty-year-old stomach won’t quite take the sort of garbage he’s been pouring into it today.”
“I hope he’ll manage to make the fight,” said Dixie anxiously.
Pollard nodded and bit into the wafer of his cone.
“I hope so too,” he said. “Me, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
Hugh was standing a few yards off, still absorbed in the tumult of the fair. He had never seen anything like it. He had experienced the fairgrounds which followed the Scottish Highland Games, but those were tame compared with this vast, blaring whirl. The fat woman of Katmandu; Dr Faustus; the Syrian fire eater; the two-headed pig; Martha, the world’s hairiest lady; Faido, the India Rubber Man: all were on show in a noisy, vulgar, dazzling display. Dominating the carnival, at its centre, was the boxing booth, a massive, grease-cloth frontage featuring grotesque coloured paintings of gloved men embroiled in ludicrous battle. In front of the booth was a railed wooden balcony and there the barker, a stout little man in blue blazer, white flannels and sailing cap, was exhorting his audience to bring forth their champions.
“Four rounds!” he cried into an ancient-looking microphone. “Any man who stays on his feet for four rounds with any one of my boys” – he half-turned to give the crowd a better view of the line of boxers standing impassively behind him – “will win himself ten dollars. And any man who wins, under Queensberry Rules” – he stressed the word “Queen” as if it had royal connotations – “will take away the prize of one hundred – I repeat one hundred – silver dollars.” The man, who proceeded to announce himself as Professor Anderson, held up a cloth purse, shook it, then poured out its contents on to the table beside him.
Anderson’s boxers were a rugged bunch, all bearing the flat noses and cauliflower ears which were the marks of their trade. None of them looked fit, being puffy around the waist and short of hard muscle in the thighs. They were men who had long since seen their best days, men journeying towards a blurred and alcoholic middle-age. However, though many of the reflexes of youth had gone, thousands of rounds of boxing lived behind those scarred eyebrows, and they were more than a match for the eager young farmhands whom they faced daily.
There was never any lack of takers, for these were hard times. The crowd, already cheering its heroes, had poured all day into the ramshackle tented booth. It was essential that each audience be given its money’s worth, and Professor Anderson’s men always provided the local boys with a few moments of glory. Occasionally the novices were allowed to make solid contact with the pug’s bodies, although usually only around the arms and chest. These contacts were greeted by Professor Anderson with “My, you good people have a veritable champion here, another Jack Dempsey!” or some other such phrase. It was generally enough.
In the first two rounds the “contenders” were permitted to exhaust themselves, to the baying of the crowd, as the pugs swayed away easily from their wild swings, occasionally answering with an eye-watering poke to the nose. But what the crowd had really come to see was big men being hurt, men who were the terror of Main Street being humiliated by experienced fighters. They came for that moment when a local big-boy would be hit solidly for the first time in his life, to see the look in his eyes when he realized that this time it was he who would be on the end of a hiding.
And by the third round all was ready. First some hard thumps to the waist to lower the novice’s guard: most men had never felt blows of such force, and they usually dropped their arms to protect their stomachs. This was immediately followed by a stiff, hard left to the chin to measure them, and finally by a clubbing right cross. Many men went down after the first punch; few survived the second. Some less fortunate souls, senses scrambled, blood pouring from mouth and nose, staggered about like stricken bulls, still encouraged by their supporters to hit back. One more clout and it was all over, and a bucket of cold water was sloshed over the now horizontal “Dempsey” of the town, while Anderson asked the crowd for a “big hand for such a worthy challenger”, and passed on to the next.
Morgan had seen it all before, and was quietly taking it all in when he was joined by Hugh and Flanagan at the back of the crowd outside the booth. Morgan saw no one in the group of boxers on the platform whom he could not handle, for all of them looked about the same weight as himself. His main worry was about his legs; and deep inside he knew that he was ring-rusty. It was nothing to do with fitness; everything to do with timing, reflexes, sheer aggression. Anderson’s men were daily putting leather to opponents, but whatever abilities Morgan had once possessed were furred over by months of distance-running. He was going to have to rediscover his skills before he could use them, and by that time it might be too late. Four rounds would be an eternity with a skilful pug wrestling, elbowing and kneeing, or grinding a bony head into his eyes.
No, it was always a hard time in that small square ring for those who did not daily live and breathe in it, no matter what one’s strength and fitness. Occasionally a strong and nimble lad might last four rounds, but Morgan had never seen a challenger come out the victor.
As for his fight, Flanagan had put on a side bet of $5,000 at three to one with Levy that Morgan could stay on his feet for four rounds, so Anderson would also be into another slice of the action if his man could put the Trans-American out early. And there was bound to be more money on the line when he put up his challenge.
At a nudge from Hugh, Morgan put up his hand. “A challenger!” shouted the Professor, and all heads turned towards Morgan. “Come right up, young fella!” Morgan and Hugh made their way through the crowd, up the steps on to the stage. There Anderson shook Morgan’s hand before turning him towards the crowd.
“Your name, sir?” he asked, still holding his microphone to his mouth. Morgan duly answered.
“Mike Morgan!” bellowed Anderson. “The Mike Morgan of the Trans-America foot-race?”
Morgan nodded, as the crowd responded with applause and shouts.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” stressed Anderson. “This is one challenger who should stay the course.”
He raised his hands above his head. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is indeed an honour. So let’s hear it for Mike Morgan, a worthy challenger indeed.” He started to applaud, both hands still above his head, and was immediately joined by the crowd now pressing hard against the flimsy wooden stage of the booth.
Morgan knew that Anderson was already sizing him up. The “Professor” had gripped Morgan’s left arm to pull him up on to the stage, and now he tapped him jovially in the stomach to check his abdominal tone. The barker then nodded to one of his assistants, a nod which meant only one thing. They were going to put a heavier man against him, someone to whom Morgan would have to surrender at least twenty pounds. It was not going to be easy.
On cue, Professor Anderson picked out a sweaty Leonard Levy in the front row of the packed crowd. Levy’s right arm was raised.
“Yes, sir,” shouted Anderson. “What can I do for you?”
Levy pushed his way up on to the wooden steps leading to the stage and whispered into the Professor’s ear. Anderson returned to the microphone, raising both hands for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted. “We have a further, special challenge!”
He again raised his hands for silence and beckoned Levy, dressed in a white lightweight suit and Panama hat, to the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen. May I proudly introduce to you one of the truly great sportsmen of our time, the creator of last week’s great race in St Louis, Mr Leonard H. Levy.”
There was sustained applause, for Levy’s St Louis promotion had made him a considerable figure. Levy pulled the microphone to him and spoke in an unsteady voice.
“Most of you know,” he said, “that Mr Flanagan has already made a small side bet on the result of this match.” He paused. “I wish to offer yet another challenge to Mr Flanagan. I offer him an additional wager of five thousand dollars at the generous odds of six to one that his champion cannot beat one of Professor Anderson’s picked men over four rounds. That, ladies and gentlemen, is my challenge.”
There was applause, followed by whoops and cheers from the packed crowd in front of the booth.
Anderson swooped on to the microphone, and said, “Would Mr Flanagan care to step up on to the stage?”
Flanagan, already prepared at the steps leading up to the stage, walked confidently up on to the platform and lowered his head to the microphone.
“I reckon everybody here knows me.”
The crowd shouted their agreement.
“So I reckon everybody here knows that above all things I am a sportsman?”
The crowd again voiced their agreement.
“So what do you think, my friends? Should I take on Mr Levy?” He turned to put his right hand on Levy’s shoulder. “Yet again?”
There was no doubting what the crowd thought and they voiced it.
Flanagan smiled his cracked, toothy smile.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “You good people have made up my mind for me.”
He fished into his inside pocket, pulled out a wad of notes and peeled off a thick wadge. He held it up to the crowd.
“Five grand more in the pot,” he said, “says Mike Morgan, the Iron Man, can beat any man the Professor here puts up.”
Levy responded by withdrawing an even thicker wad of dollars and the men, with Professor Anderson standing between them, solemnly shook hands, Anderson placing both hands on top of theirs.
“The booth fight of the century,” he bellowed into the microphone. “Mike Morgan, versus . . .” he paused for a moment. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ll keep you in suspense as to his opponent. Simply let me say that it will be the best man my booth can offer. So roll up, one and all, for the booth fight of the century.”
There was almost a riot as crowds surged towards the narrow entrance to the booth on the right of the stage. Anderson’s fighters had to be summoned to control them, eventually forming them into a noisy, jostling line which stretched for over a hundred yards. Flanagan followed Morgan and Hugh in, while Levy and Anderson stood in conference on the platform.
“We’re gonna have to beat them back with clubs,” enthused Anderson. “I reckon I can pack in more than five hundred – six hundred, say, if they stand on each other’s feet.”
“Great,” said Levy. “But what about your man? Have you got him set up right?”
“No problem,” said Anderson. “My best, a real pro. Anyhow’s, he’ll spot Morgan more than twenty-five pounds. No way some goddam runner can beat a pro. But I gotta give the paying customer a show, Mr Levy. So he’s got to hold this Morgan guy up for a coupla rounds, make him look good. Then it’s lights out in the third. That all right by you?”
Levy nodded. “Just make sure that he puts him out clean. I don’t want any points decision.”
“No,” said Anderson. “Not with your fancy Colonel Cranston as referee. I just saw him a few minutes ago. Looks as if he’s come straight from West Point. There’ll be no points decision. I just told my boy he’ll be canned if he doesn’t take Morgan in three.”
Morgan and Hugh had meanwhile entered the silent, empty booth, leaving Anderson and the pressing crowds outside. Anderson, knowing of Morgan’s challenge, had gutted the stage of its normal benches to increase its audience capacity, leaving only a rectangle of faded red velvet chairs around the ring for local dignitaries. Morgan pulled himself up on the slack, greasy ropes which encircled the ring. He walked slowly into the centre and looked around him, absorbing every detail.
The stale and bitter smell of sweat and sawdust was unchanged from his days boxing in Kansas – the same sagging ropes, the same dirty, uneven canvas floor, the same low worn stools, the almost tangible atmosphere of human sweat mixed with the sweetness of wet grass and the sour smell of liniment.
He looked down at his gloves – brown, lumpy and patched – and picked them up as Anderson entered the booth with Colonel Cranston. Anderson’s eyes narrowed when he saw that Morgan had already started to tape his hands.
“You fought before?” he asked, climbing up into the ring.
“A little,” said Morgan, putting his left hand into his glove and thudding it hard against the palm of his right.
Alan Cranston was the next to push his way under the ring-ropes. He took the right glove from Morgan and shook his head. “Disgraceful,” he said. “They might as well fight with bare fists. No bout will take place under my jurisdiction using these.”
“This ain’t no Golden Gloves tournament, Colonel,” said Anderson testily.
“Perhaps not,” answered Cranston. “But these gloves are in an appalling condition. So change them, man, change them.” Anderson scowled, too surprised to say anything further, and after a moment’s hesitation strode off towards the front of the booth.
Cranston watched him go, then walked round the ring, checking the ropes. He frowned. After the formality of St Louis this was not really what he had expected. Perhaps he should have stopped back at Coolidge stadium, while he was still ahead. The gloves he could change, but there was little he could do about the slack ropes, the dirty, patched, uneven ring or the low beams.
A few moments later Anderson returned, levering his way through the crowds now pouring into the booth, up the narrow gangway leading to the ring. He pushed two pairs of gloves at Cranston through the ropes. “Do these meet your honour’s requirements?” he growled.
Cranston put his fist into each glove, punched into the palm of his hand, and checked them thoroughly. “They’ll do,” he said, handing a pair to Morgan. “Only one more thing: time-keeping.” He pointed to a neutral corner where a burly, flat-nosed man in a polo-necked sweater was standing. “Sergeant O’Brien. He’ll keep time.”
Anderson scowled again. Time-keeping had always been flexible in his booth: long rounds to sap novices, short counts when they hit the canvas.
“If you insist, Colonel.”
“I most certainly do,” said Cranston, pulling on the ropes. “And try to get something done about these.”
Morgan sat quietly on his stool, gloves dangling between his legs, and looked round the ring. Under-size as usual, to give novices nowhere to hide. That suited him: he had not come to run. He looked above him. Low wooden beams, about six and a half feet up from the ring. Most novices would tend to duck under the beams, misjudging their height, and in that moment of doubt a left hook would put them away. He stood up and walked slowly round the ring, testing it for soft spots, areas where he would be liable to lose balance. Booth boxers knew such spongy areas by heart and would be ready for those moments in which balance was lost and a single punch could put their opponent down.
As usual even the stool was low, to make it uncomfortable, difficult to rest on between rounds. Anderson was indeed a sportsman of Olympic calibre.
But to Morgan it was like coming home. In 1930 he had spent three months in a booth, chinning bumpkins around Kansas and Nebraska in a certain Colonel Marshall’s Academy of Boxing. There he had been schooled by Packy Paterson, an aging middleweight who had once hovered on the fringe of championship honours. Old Packy had taught him every trick of the booth boxer’s trade – how to pull men into punches, to sap them by elbowing and wrestling, to dig to the kidneys, to thumb the eye. Packy’s speciality was a long, looping, round-the-corner left to the head, followed by a short left hook to the chin. Both these punches were, admittedly, often amplified by the introduction of a lump of plaster of Paris inside his left glove, but the recipient was by that time past caring, the audience equally unconcerned.
The tent was now bulging, with more desperate, noisy spectators pressing in from the ticket booth at the entrance, causing those at the front to press forward, protesting, over the fragile rectangle of VIP seats with which Anderson had framed the ring. Air-conditioning was not yet one of Professor Anderson’s amenities and the tent was like a sauna. Levy, sitting beside Flanagan in the VIP area, dripped sweat on to his immaculate suit, so that it stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He loosened his silk tie and undid his top shirt button.
“Looks like the Professor’s got himself a full house,” he said, looking to each side. “Nothing like good clean sport to bring people out.” He held back a smile. His bet with Flanagan had nothing to do with money. Leonard H. Levy did not like to be outsmarted, and Flanagan was not going to make his way on to New York with Levy’s scalp under his belt. He looked up at the ring. Anderson, who by some sleight of hand had changed into evening-dress, had a megaphone to his lips. The din of the crowd diminished.
“It is my pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, to announce tonight’s special challenge bout,” he boomed. “In the corner to my right, the challenger, the Iron Man of the Trans-America, Mike Morgan, now lying fourth in the race and coming up fast. Entering the ring now, the undisputed champion of the booths of Illinois . . .” Behind him, a hunched, shadowy figure in a hooded dressing-gown pushed his way through the crowd.
Flanagan groaned inwardly as Anderson’s man ducked under the ropes to mixed cheers and boos. Kate, standing directly under Morgan’s corner, looked across at Flanagan anxiously. The man was a burly 180 pounds, a classic booth boxer. Flanagan summoned a weak smile and made an even weaker fist. “Easy,” he mouthed silently to Kate. “A piece of cake.”
It was like the old days, only Doc had never before faced an audience of such size. A crowd of four thousand stood around him, only the first few rows clear in the pool of light from the stage, whilst in the background whirled and blared General Honeycombe’s carnival. For Doc Cole was now a celebrity, and even if he had said nothing or simply run about on the spot his audience would probably have considered they had got their money’s worth.
Doc stood at the microphone, a tiny sun-bronzed figure in the bright lights of the stage, standing in front of a wooden table on which rested a turtle shell and a row of coloured glass bottles purchased that morning from the local drug store. At the side of the table stood a human skeleton, borrowed from the proprietor of the fair’s “Haunted House”. There was a roar of welcome and thunderous applause and the front rows of the audience pressed in on him.
He held up his hands for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I don’t come to you tonight as Doc Cole, Trans-American. No, I come to you as the bearer of great and important news. Great news that will transform the life of every man, woman and child in this audience.” Doc’s voice had dropped an octave, for he was now Doc Cole, huckster extraordinary. It was also slower, as he gave weight to each key word and syllable.
“Let me first tell you a story, a tale from China. During the reign of the Whang Po dynasty the nation’s birth rate suddenly dropped like a stone. Rich and poor alike were affected; there was no escape for anyone.
“The emperor offered ten million yen – that’s one hundred thousand silver dollars in our money – for a remedy to restore normal vitality to China’s population. But all efforts met with failure – until a scientist named He Tuck Chaw made a remarkable discovery.”
Doc moved across the stage and picked up the turtle shell from the table, holding it in front of him with both hands.
“He Tuck Chaw,” he said, “was exploring a volcanic area in Southern Mongolia when he noticed untold numbers of small, turtle-like animals. At first glance they seemed identical in appearance. Occasionally, however, he found one with beautiful golden stripes. One day it occurred to him: why was it that there were so few turtles with golden stripes? Why?”
Doc paused, put down the turtle shell, unbuttoned the middle button of his I908 Olympic blazer, and held up seven fingers to the audience.
“He Tuck Chaw studied seven thousand – I repeat, seven thousand of these striped turtles. And do you know what they were? Do you have any conception?”
He did not wait for an answer.
“They were all, each and every one of them, males. Male turtles.”
He paused again. “But the really important thing was that the ratio of male to female of this type of turtle was one male to twelve hundred females.”
Doc paused a third time to allow the ratio to sink in.
“He Tuck Chaw was now certain that he was on the brink of a major discovery. And was not the fate of all China in the balance? He must determine the source of this incredible vitality possessed by these pitiably few, but undoubtedly potent, male turtles.”
He lifted a glass of water to his lips and sipped slowly. The audience was hushed.
“And what did he find, gentlemen? More to the point, what did he find, ladies?”
Doc lowered the glass to the table, raised a finger and wagged it at his audience.
“I’ll tell you what he found, my good sirs and ladies,” he said. “He found that, in contrast with the female, the male turtle possessed a small pouch at the base of its brain. This was known as the ‘Quali Quah’ pouch.”
He held a small leather pouch over his head.
“The Quali Quah pouch,” he repeated. “So He Tuck Chaw worked swiftly. He removed the pouches of hundreds of males, dried them and reduced them to powder, then rushed off back to the emperor’s court. The emperor, desperate at the fall in population, told He Tuck Chaw that he should be immediately given several patients upon whom to experiment.”
Doc put down his glass.
“Do you know, my friends, what sorry, hopeless victims of impotence the emperor presented to He Tuck Chaw? Each man had reached at least seventy years of age. One, the emperor’s own cousin, had passed four score and nine. Just think of it! Some of them were too weak to stand, let alone perform their manly functions. These, then, were the poor wretches brought forth to test the goodness of Quali Quah . . .”
His audience roared with laughter.
Doc paused again, wagging his finger, maintaining his composure. “It was no laughing matter, I assure you, when He Tuck Chaw looked upon these – these virtual eunuchs – and contemplated his own fate were he to fail in his task. He knew that the emperor, tired of the charlatans of the past, had set him the supreme test.”
He lowered his voice to a whisper and pulled the microphone to him.
“Gentlemen, in the space of four hours those feeble examples of manhood were flexing muscles unused for decades, and were crying aloud ‘Pong Wook Ee!’ which, as many of you know, is the Chinese equivalent of ‘Eureka’.
“Delicacy does not permit me to reveal what happened next. Suffice to say that in a mere nine months the efficacy of Quali Quah was proved beyond all doubt. And what is the population of China, now, ladies and gentlemen? I’ll tell you. Six hundred million – a quarter of the population of this planet!
“Now, gentlemen, there is a sufficient quantity of Quali Quah in the Chickamauga remedy to restore you to the identical condition of virility that has made China a marvel, as well as a problem, to the modern world.”
Doc picked up a bottle of Chickamauga.
“And gentlemen, I am not going to sell you bottles of Chickamauga tonight. No sir, I am going to give them away. Every one of you who buys my autographed photograph at one dollar gets a five-dollar bottle of Chickamauga free. Just think of that!”
There was a roar of applause. Times had changed, and few in the audience had much belief in the ‘virilizing’ qualities of Quali Quah. But who cared? Doc was a voice from a lamp-lit, cozy past, when men believed in such nostrums as Vital Sparks, Perry Davis’ painkiller or Dr Perkins’ Metallic Tractors. To them Doc Cole was John Philip Sousa, Jim Thorpe and Teddy Roosevelt rolled into one; within an hour he had sold out of Chickamauga and was selling the photographs alone at a dollar apiece.
Morgan sat on his stool and looked across the ring. Of course, it was old Packy. A year had put a little more fat round his waist, his pectorals were beginning to sag, but he had still the broad, muscle-slabbed back and shoulders of an old pro. Morgan had not fought Packy since that first time in 1930 when the veteran had danced with him for a couple of rounds before despatching him in the third, but he knew that the older man must still have a good few shots in his locker.
Packy’s immediate reaction was one of surprise, then one of pleasure. Wiping the smile from his face, he walked menacingly to the centre of the ring where he was joined by Morgan.
“Great to see yuh again, Morgan,” he said, assuming a scowl. His voice dropped. “I got problems,” he whispered. “Anderson’s cutting down on men. If I don’t take you, I get canned. So lie down, for Christ’s sake, in the third.”
Morgan went back to his corner. The picture was clear. Packy was on his last chance. Another defeat and the old man was finished.
Below the ring, seated uncomfortably on one of the lumpy, faded velvet chairs Flanagan puffed uneasily on his cigar as he swopped pleasantries with the Mayor of Bloomington and other local dignitaries, and fobbed off side-bets from betters behind him. From the shouts of the crowd Morgan seemed to have a lot of local support, news of his performance in the Trans-America having preceded him, and the audience also contained a fair number of Trans-Americans. Flanagan sucked hard on his Havana as he looked up again at Packy Paterson, then shivered. On the tight-rope again. He forced a confident smile as Liebnitz passed by with Pollard, and made his way to a seat on Flanagan’s left. The senior journalist, looking white-faced, was shaking his head gloomily.
Cranston had meanwhile brought the two boxers together in the centre of the ring, and stood between them, his hands on their shoulders.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I want this to be a clean fight. Break when I say break, and keep those punches above the waist. And remember, I am the sole arbiter within this ring. The very best of luck to both of you.”
Packy stepped back, giving Morgan a knowing look. Morgan did not respond.
Sergeant O’Brien clanged the bell for the first round.
Packy came shuffling out, and the two men immediately clinched, with Packy pinning Morgan’s arms to his body.
“Make it look good, Morgan boy,” he whispered, cuffing him with a soft left as Cranston pulled them apart.
Morgan circled Packy, poking out tentative lefts to find his distance: this was no bare-fist fight in which one clubbing blow would finish things. Morgan kept circling, trying to focus his thoughts. Packy’s long, looping left came over and took him on the outside of his right cheek, and the runner cursed himself for his slowness. Packy followed in with his short left hook, but there was no power in it. Colonel Cranston’s pre-fight inspection had also made sure that there was no plaster of Paris either.
Packy then put in several showy rat-a-tat hooks to the body, but still there was no pith in the punches. “Let’s show ’em some class, Morgan,” he puffed, grinning as they clinched, the sweat already streaming down his hairy chest. Morgan responded with some light, fast blows to Packy’s head, followed by hooks with both hands to the stomach, but he too made sure there was no steam in them. The two men gave the crowd some flashy toe-to-toe punching as the bell clanged for the end of the first round, but it was all show.
Morgan sat back on his stool. “What do you think?” asked Hugh anxiously, flapping a towel to cool his man, while Morgan rinsed his mouth. “You don’t look too happy.”
“I know him,” said Morgan. He spat into the water bucket. “It’s Packy Paterson. I’ve fought him before. He won’t go down easy.” He was not even sure whether that was what he wanted. Packy had been like a brother to him. The old man was finished if Morgan put him away. And yet . . .
His mind was at war with itself. Part of him searched desperately back into the past, trying to recall the mass of routines and combination punches which Packy had used, and of the counters which the veteran had taught him. He knew that only the muscular memory of those days with Packy would save him, for he had taken every punch in the old man’s armory at some time or other. But he was tired by thousands of miles of running, and already taking punches that a year ago would have glided harmlessly past. It was fortunate for him that Packy had waltzed the first round; had he taken it seriously Morgan would undoubtedly have been forced to take a count.
He thought of the hundreds of punches he had thudded into Packy’s face and body, in those days when the old man had helped him survive. There had been no profit in it for Packy. Indeed, young men like Morgan were rivals, the natural successors of Paterson and the other ring-scarred veterans. It was impossible to tell a man, let alone a woman, of the comradeship that could develop between men who spent at least an hour every day knocking hell out of each other. But comradeship it was, and the cold certainty with which Mike Morgan normally approached combat melted away in that short minute on his stool, unheeding of Hugh’s anxious advice at his side.
The bell clanged for the second round and Packy came out fast. Obviously, he was not going to wait until the fourth: someone must have told him to put Morgan down. Jab, jab went his left hand into Morgan’s face, without reply. Jab, jab again, puffing Morgan’s right eye. Morgan circled, making the older man move. Again Packy’s left hand went out, this time followed by a right cross over the top of Morgan’s left, splitting his lip on the right. The crowd roared: they had come to see blood, and here it was.
Morgan counter-jabbed, jolting Packy’s head back like a whip. He noticed the pained surprise in the veteran’s eyes. Packy pulled him into a clinch in the neutral corner.
“Take the fall, for Chrissake,” said Packy. “Don’t wanna cut you up.”
Cranston parted them and Morgan moved away. He was still confused. All his reflexes told him to fight, but there was no way in which he could put Packy Paterson down.
The decision was made for him. Packy’s sucker left came over the top. Morgan could see it coming from a long way back, as if in a nightmare, but could do nothing about it. It was inevitably followed in by the short, sharp left jab, straight to Morgan’s chin. The runner went down like a stone, the blur of the booth lights blinding him as he fell. He landed flat on his back, his head striking the floor with a dull thud. He was dimly aware of Cranston counting above him, and dragged himself up on to his elbows, only to fall over once more. One – two – three – four – five – six – seven – eight . . .
On the count of nine Sergeant O’Brien clanged the bell and Hugh rushed into the ring, put his arms under Morgan’s armpits and dragged him back to his corner. In the front row of the audience Flanagan had his face in his hands, whilst beside him Dixie was comforting Kate Sheridan.
Morgan hung limply on his stool, his back resting on the corner-support, arms dangling at his sides, eyes half-closed. Hugh sponged his face with luke-warm water and Morgan’s eyes opened. He shook his head, water and sweat spraying over them both. Hugh looked desperately down at Flanagan, who still sat head down, immersed in his own worries.
“Here, give him this.”
It was Doc, from beneath the ring. He thrust a small bottle of smelling salts into Hugh’s hand.
“Get them under his nose, and quick.”
Hugh unscrewed the container, put his left arm round Morgan’s shoulders and thrust the salts under the boxer’s nose.
Morgan coughed as the acrid smell of the salts reached his nostrils. Hugh slapped his face lightly.
“You with me, Mike?”
Morgan nodded.
“Then listen. Just stay out of trouble for the next three minutes, till your head clears. Use the ring. Make him move.”
Morgan pushed away the smelling salts, shook his head and brushed the tears and sweat from his eyes. His head still spun. It was strange: breathing, legs, body were still in good condition, yet here he was, fighting to secure that level of concentration that would enable him to stay on his feet for another round. He felt his head slowly clear. It had been a good punch, but it had not been of knock-out calibre. Perhaps Packy needed the plaster of Paris to put people away for good nowadays.
Colonel Cranston walked over to him.
“You sure you’re able to continue?” he asked.
“Try to stop me,” growled Morgan, pushing his gloves together and baring his teeth. He looked across at Packy, who was swilling out his mouth, listening to the snarled advice of Professor Anderson, on his left. This was not time for aggression. He must do as Hugh had advised: stay out of trouble until he could clear his head completely and get back into his punching rhythm.
The humid atmosphere in the tent was now intense, with the Trans-Americans on their feet chanting out their man’s name, but Morgan was no longer aware of it. His aim throughout the next minute had, simply, to be to survive, to stay on his feet. The bell went. He circled, making Packy move to him. But he could not stay out of the way of Packy’s sharp prodding left, which was rapidly closing his right eye. Hugh’s words clung in his mind. “Use the ring, make him move.” Somehow Morgan was able to keep on the balls of his feet, circling and swaying to the rhythm of past reflexes. Each time the old man missed, Morgan heard the sharp explosion of breath, the increased heaviness of his breathing. Packy was tiring. Throughout the whole round Morgan hardly threw a punch, circling and dancing, bobbing and weaving as his senses returned and some of the old rhythms and reflexes came back to him, albeit only in flurries. Packy plodded dourly after him, occasionally catching Morgan but never with a solid, punishing punch. The veteran was puffing hard as O’Brien signalled the end of the third round, to the boos of the local crowd.
“Get that man to fight, Colonel,” hissed Anderson. “This ain’t no dancing school.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your comments to yourself, Professor,” spat Cranston in reply.
Morgan meanwhile was back on the low stool, the sweat streaming down his lean body. He was back in the fight. Packy would have to put him away in the fourth to save Anderson his hundred dollars, plus whatever Levy had offered him. The old man would have to come to him. So this was the time to go for the big hit. If Packy did succeed in putting him out, what did it mean? For Packy, another couple of stumblebum years in the booth and a glassy senility in some asylum. And Flanagan now had over forty grand riding on the fight – the future of the Trans-America, not to mention all the bets the Trans-Americans had taken.
“Morgan!” He looked down to his right, below the ring. It was Flanagan.
“The belly,” said Flanagan, putting together a fantasy combination of lefts and rights into the smoky air in front of him. “Go for the body and the head will die.” He put another combination together and replaced his cigar on the left side of his mouth. “You can bank on it.”
He made a fist to Morgan with his right hand and moved back to his seat.
Morgan turned to look at Hugh above him. “He’s right,” said Hugh. “Go for his gut.”
Morgan spat his rinse-water into the bucket, replaced his gum-shield with a grimace and pressed his gloves together. He looked across at Packy. It was so obvious that he should have seen it himself. There were fear and uncertainty in the older man’s eyes as Professor Anderson spat advice at him from beneath the ropes. Time was running out for him. He would have to put Morgan away.
With the sound of the final bell Packy came out crouching, balanced, and immediately took the initiative. The veteran led with a straight left which snapped Morgan’s head back, then ducked to hook him with a right to the stomach, below the belt. Morgan gasped and went down on his left knee, his right glove on the canvas. The old man still packed a wallop: his hardest punch so far. And no longer legal. He looked above him at Packy’s pouting, hairy belly. “Go for the body and the head will die.”
He got up at the count of seven. Cranston cleaned his gloves, held him by both cheeks, looked closely into his eyes, then released him. Left, left into Packy’s face, forcing him into a corner. Then Morgan ducked and drilled six short jabs deep into Packy’s stomach, feeling the old man gasp as he dug them home and the spray of sweat as Packy pulled him into a clinch.
Cranston pushed them apart and Morgan again went in low, boring short lefts and rights deep into Packy’s stomach. He heard the “oof” of Packy’s breath as his punches sank home. He felt the veteran’s legs go soft, and for a moment he considered holding him up.
But no. He again hit Packy with a left jab to the diaphragm. As the old man’s right hand dropped, Morgan threw a left to the point of Packy’s chin. From the moment the punch was thrown he knew that it was the final blow of the fight. Packy went down flat on his back. All the bellowing of Professor Anderson and his fighters could not bring him to his feet.
The Trans-Americans rose as one man, throwing hats, newspapers, jackets in the air. Flanagan had done it again. In the red velvet seat beside Flanagan, Leonard H. Levy smiled limply and stood to shake his rival’s hand. Flanagan ignored him, instead making a flurry of left and right jabs to an imaginary belly, as he continued to look up at the crowded ring.
“I told you, Morgan!” he shouted. “I told you.”
Half an hour later, Mike Morgan stood alongside Kate Sheridan, Hugh McPhail and Dixie Williams in the darkness outside the deserted booth, and watched as the lights on the booth-front went out one by one.
Morgan put both hands on Kate’s shoulders and looked her squarely in the eye.
“There’s something I’ve got to do,” he said quietly. “Wait for me here.” He nodded to the others then walked to the left of the booth, and on to the cluster of caravans behind it. Some of Anderson’s fighters were sitting at a wooden table outside the ring of caravans, drinking and playing cards.
Morgan strode over to the card-players; they continued their game, not once looking up.
“I’m looking for Packy Paterson,” he said squarely. “He around?”
An unshaven, flat-nosed man took a cigarette from his mouth and dropped it to the grass, trampling it in with his feet. He jerked a thumb over his left shoulder.
“In there,” he said. “What’s left of him.”
With a brief word of thanks Morgan made his way in the direction suggested, towards a small caravan painted in dull blue and gold. He could hear Anderson’s voice even as he mounted the caravan’s steps; the word “finished” was repeated several times. He could guess only too well what form the conversation was taking. He knocked at the door, to be greeted a moment later by a flushed Professor Anderson.
“S’pose you’re here to see your old buddy?” said Anderson tersely.
Morgan nodded and walked past Anderson into the dishevelled quarters beyond. At the end of the narrow caravan, on the edge of a bunk, sat Packy Paterson. His head was between his knees, his hands laced together on the back of his neck. Like the card-players, he too did not look up.
“How you feeling, champ?” asked Morgan, looking behind him to Anderson, who made a contemptuous thumbs-down sign as he left the caravan.
Paterson raised his head and attempted a smile, the sweat still streaming down his face.
“Great – a hundred per cent,” he said bitterly. He pointed towards the door. “Looks as though I’m gonna have to find me a new boss, though.”
“That’ll be no problem,” said Morgan. “I’ve got one already lined up.”
He moved to Packy and pulled him to his feet.
“Got one? Who d’you mean?” The fighter’s voice was cautious, and slightly bewildered.
“Me, that’s who,” said Morgan firmly. He grabbed Packy by his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Pack your things,” he said. “You’re with the Trans-America – as from now.”
“Doing what?” asked Packy, still bemused, yet reaching up into the cupboard above him for his clothes.
“Taking care of me,” answered Morgan. “Making sure I reach New York.”