Her gown shimmered in the lights and Aaron liked the way she shyly ducked her head. The newspaper photographers milled around the entrance, looking to capture the images of the rich and famous who were in attendance. Aaron was glad to have such a beautiful girl on his arm when the flashbulbs started flaring.
“Come on, Angel. Smile for the cameras.” He tucked her arm more firmly under his elbow and drew her closer. Aaron saw one of the newspapermen he knew and called to him. “Bob, whatcha think? Who’s going to take the day?”
“Oh, hello, Aaron. Why, Jack Dempsey doesn’t stand a chance against the ‘Wild Bull of the Pampas.’ Not with his weight and reach. He’ll be lucky to last three rounds.”
“Would you care to make a wager on that? I’m all for Dempsey tonight.”
“Sure, Aaron, sure.”
“How about a hundred to win?”
The reporter gulped and hesitated a moment. “I don’t know, Aaron. That’s a bit rich for my blood. How about this? If Dempsey wins, I’ll get your picture in the paper. You and the beautiful, young thing on your arm. Who’s the doll, anyway?”
“She’s Gladys’ daughter, so watch your manners.” Aaron laughed. “You have a deal. A hundred to a picture. See ya later, Bob.”
With that, Aaron continued into the Polo Grounds, his arm around Angel.
“Keep close, doll. It’s a madhouse in here. Biggest fight of the century.”
***
Danny and Morelli were stationed out where the chauffeured cars arrived to drop off their glamorous passengers. It was their job to hold back the crowds of regular people who might want to get a little too close to the rich and famous. On the other hand, the photographers were all there to get as close as they could to anyone who might be photo-worthy.
Morelli noticed the long, white Cadillac as it pulled up. It was the same type of car in the photo that Mrs. Hart had shown him that morning. There couldn’t be that many of the same white touring cars in the city. He pushed back one side of the crowd, trying to get close enough to see who was riding in the car. It would be too easy if Hart were here with his redheaded mistress. Morelli looked for Danny, but he was too far away at that point to get his attention. Morelli would have liked to have two sets of eyes on the car.
The uniformed chauffeur opened the back door for a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thin mustache. It looked like the son of a bitch in the photo: Aaron Hart. He reached back into the car and helped out a young woman in a golden gown. Her white fur blocked a good view of her face, until she lifted her chin and Morelli recognized Mrs. Hart. He watched the way Mr. Hart moved, his arm around his wife, the way he encouraged her to pose for pictures. He was a real piece of work. Morelli knew that plenty of men cheated on their wives, but he couldn’t believe that a man would need to stray, with a dish like Mrs. Hart at home. He watched them go into the pavilion and then went back to doing his job.
***
Aaron led Angel down the wooden walkway onto the field. There were seats stretching as far as they could see across the open ground. Large lettered signs indicated the seating sections. The first few rows around the ring were filled with the press; each of them was sitting with their hand on a telegraph key or small typewriter, reporting on the event.
“Mr. Hart, Mr. Hart.”
Aaron saw Sean O’Brien working his way through the crowd toward them.
“Good to see you, Sean.”
“Thanks for getting us tickets, Mr. Hart. Mickey and I been watching out for your seats, just like you asked me to. A couple of guys tried to sit there, but, you know, we sent ‘em off.” He made a smacking sound with his fist hitting his palm.
“Thank you, Sean.”
“No problem. Follow me.”
Sean showed them to a row of seats near the ring, just behind the press. There was another young man with dark red hair sitting in the seats that Sean indicated. He saw them arrive and got up; his look at Aaron was hard, but he said nothing as he left.
“Who were those men, Aaron?”
“Just a couple of guys I know. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have someone watching over our seats. And they wanted to see the fight.” Aaron pulled a case out of his coat pocket and removed a cigar. He prepared to light it, while Angel looked around at the crowd. There were very few women, but the section in which they were sitting was full of richly dressed folk, including some women in extravagant furs.
Aaron lit his cigar and looked about, trying to find some of the important people he knew were coming tonight. Too bad Gladys wasn’t here. Even though she called it all “so much brawling,” he would have been glad of her social stature at this moment. Her regal bearing always made the crowds give way for her, as if she owned the place. He needed to see and be seen by the right people if he was going to succeed with his goals of getting elected to a council seat. It wasn’t enough for Tammany that he could bring out the vote. They had plenty of toughs in the streets for that. They needed made men who would bring them into the right circles. Aaron’s connections through Gladys were his chance to be one of those men. It would only help his efforts if the people who counted saw her at his side.
Just then, an elegantly attired gentleman and a young dandy stepped past them in the row. Aaron rose and greeted him.
“Good evening, Mr. Banks.”
“Oh, good evening, Mr. Hart.” Edward Banks was a shipping magnate of some considerable wealth who lived just a few blocks away from their house, on the Park. At seventy, he still cut a fine figure. Aaron didn’t recognize the young man with him and Mr. Banks pointedly failed to introduce them.
“May I introduce my ward, Angel Eldridge? Angel, this is Mr. Banks.”
“How do you do?” Mr. Banks bowed over her hand but seemed to glare at Aaron at the same moment. “Do you think this event is a proper place for a delicate young woman?”
“Oh, I think she’ll find it quite exciting; don’t you, Angel?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Banks, I was just thrilled to come with Aaron, I mean, Mr. Hart, tonight.”
“Well, take care of her, Hart. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to her if the crowd gets ugly.”
“I don’t think there’s much chance of that, Edward.”
Edward Banks merely raised an eyebrow at that and turned away, taking his companion with him.
“Dirty old man,” Aaron muttered, “telling me about my business.”
Aaron turned back to Angel and began pointing out the important people in the crowd.
“There are the Edgewoods. That’s the younger Rutherford. And the Carnegie boys.”
An older man in a plain dark suit caught Aaron’s attention. It was George Lovett, from Tammany Hall. As soon as Aaron caught his eye, he turned away and started walking up the stairs.
“Excuse me for a moment, Angel. There’s someone I need to speak to.”
Aaron slipped up the steps against the flow of the crowd, keeping an eye on the bald spot on the back of Lovett’s head. Halfway up the stairs, Lovett turned left into the seats and Aaron followed. The row was empty, except for the middle two seats. One was taken by a florid man in his fifties, wearing a fine, black suit, his fedora cocked back on his head. The other held a young man whose muscles bunched under the suit coat he was trying, and failing, to wear properly.
“George, George. Great night, isn’t it?” Aaron reached out and caught George Lovett by the shoulder. Lovett turned in alarm, but the look was replaced by a placid stare almost immediately.
“Aaron Hart, how are you?”
“Fine, just fine, George. It’s going to be a great night for New York, don’tcha think?”
“Mr. Hart, this is Jimmy Hines, councilman for the Eleventh. Mr. Hines, this is Aaron Hart.” No introduction of the younger man was made, so Aaron assumed he was just protection. Lovett moved aside so that Aaron could shake hands with Hines.
“Mr. Hines, nice to meet you.”
“I hear you’re a man to watch, Mr. Hart. A man of the people, and yet with influence b
eyond his past station. A man on his way up.”
“I certainly hope so. But you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Hines. You seem to know more about me than I do about you.”
“Well, Aaron, perhaps you can rectify that situation at another time.” George Lovett interrupted. “I’m sure you will have other opportunities to speak again. Since you are both here at the moment, we have something more urgent to discuss.” He paused and looked around, but there was no one standing close by. Lovett dropped his voice and Aaron was forced to lean closer to hear what he had to say.
“I understand that you have expressed interest in becoming more involved with the political governance of our fair city.”
“Yes, sir, that’s very true.”
“Well, I believe you have an opportunity to show some important people just how interested you might be.”
“Whatever I can do, sir, I will undertake to accomplish.”
“Aaron, there are some swiftly moving currents in City Hall at the moment and we are in need of additional support. A financial contribution to your fellows in Tammany would be appreciated.”
“I see.” Aaron leaned closer. “How large a contribution would be needed?”
“Twenty thousand.” Lovett looked at Hines and smiled. “Jimmy here has some expenses that need attention.
Before he could continue, the lights over the ring brightened and the announcer arrived. The stands had been filling steadily and the crowd broke into wild cheering. The sound was exhilarating.
Lovett scowled. “We’ll have to discuss this further after the fight.” He motioned to Aaron, who turned and walked back down the aisle, which was now completely full of men on their feet, cheering their champion.
“Aaron, I was afraid you miss the fight,” Angel said when he returned.
“No way, doll.” He put his arm around her. “Besides, I wouldn’t leave you here alone.”
The announcer called the fighters to come in. First into the ring was the Argentinian, Luis Firpo. He was an enormous man, wearing a brown-checked robe, with a towel around his thick neck. He had several handlers with him.
Then Jack Dempsey stepped into the ring. He was wearing a pair of shining white trunks and a white sweater around his shoulders. Dempsey was smaller and more wiry than the challenger. Aaron wondered who would really win this fight. The odds had been close: 5-to-2 yesterday against Firpo, moving to 3-to-1 this afternoon, despite the fact that so many people said that Dempsey was going to win. The press photographers lined up to take their pictures as they postured together at one corner of the ring. The crowd noise continued until the announcer sent the men to their respective corners and introduced them.
“In this corner, the Heavyweight Champion of the world, The Manassa Mauler, Jack Dempsey.”
The crowd screamed Dempsey’s name over and over.
“And over here, the contender, Luis Angel Firpo.”
The announcer mentioned the rules and then the referee took the ring. The fight began. Dempsey was on the attack immediately. The men danced together around the ring. Very quickly, Dempsey got in a hard right and Firpo went down onto all fours. The ref began his count, but Firpo was on his feet again. Dempsey was right there and Firpo began firing away with his fists. Both men pressed toward the center, almost hugging each other as they rained blows on each other’s midsections. The referee was forced to separate them.
A further sharp right and Firpo fell to his knees. Aaron could see the sweat flying off the gleaming bodies, illuminated by the flare of the flashes, as the press photographers took hundreds of pictures. They continued to grapple and slam each other with hard blows. Aaron had seen street fights that were less vicious than this one. At one point, Dempsey hit Firpo hard enough to send him flying to the floor. He rolled onto his back and the ref began his count. Seven… eight… nine. Aaron thought the fight might be over then and there, but Firpo climbed back up just before the count of ten.
Dempsey was right there and hit him again, sending Firpo back to his knees, but he didn’t go down. He was right back up, grappling with the champion. Aaron looked at Angel to see her reaction. She stared at the two men in fascination, making small mewling noises behind her hand with each grunt and thud of their blows.
Dempsey continued to batter Firpo, sending him to the floor again, right in Dempsey’s corner. The referee began the count, waving Dempsey away. He stepped over Firpo’s body and into the corner behind him. Firpo managed to struggle up.
The contender was obviously angry, throwing big roundhouse punches at Dempsey. One of them caught him on the side of the head and he tumbled back through the ropes into the crowd, landing on the row of typewriters belonging to the newsmen. Several reporters lifted him and pushed him back into the ring as the ref was counting. Firpo came at him again and Dempsey seemed shocked at the fierce attack. The crowd was so loud that Aaron didn’t hear the ref.
By the end of the round, both men were staggering as if drunk. They retreated to their corners as Angel tugged on Aaron’s sleeve.
“How can they take that much battering? It looks horrible.”
“They train for it. They’re men. That’s what they do.”
“Oh, my.” She put her hands up over her face.
Just then the bell rang and Dempsey came charging out of his corner. Pressing his attack after the brief rest, he backed Firpo into a corner, but taller man was able to slip away. Dempsey followed and delivered a series of punishing blows. Firpo fell to the mat on all fours. Dempsey backed off as the ref counted once again, and Firpo stood up. They continued to press close together until Dempsey got in one strong right hook and Firpo fell to the mat, rolling onto his back and lying still. The ref started the count and Firpo tried to roll over and get to his feet, but he was finished. At the count of ten, Dempsey rushed up and helped the contender to his feet before the assistants swarmed into the ring and the announcer pulled Dempsey to the center.
Lifting his right glove, the announcer pronounced Dempsey the winner of the fight. It had lasted less than five minutes.
“Is it over, already?” Angel asked.
“Yes, my girl, it is. Dempsey put him down so that he couldn’t come back.” Aaron slipped his arm around her. “We’d better get out of here before the crowd goes wild.” He leaned over and conferred with Sean, who had appeared at his shoulder.
“Why don’t you send Mickey out to tell my driver that we’re leaving and you can help me clear a path to the door for this young lady?”
“Certainly, Mr. Hart.” They slipped out of their row and made their way slowly through the crowd surging toward the ring. Sean started pushing his way roughly through the crowd. Angel walked in the space between Sean and Aaron, careful of the men to either side. Eventually, they reached the exit. A few news photographers were outside the entrance, waiting for the crowd. They must not have been able to get tickets close to the ring. All the rest of the photographers were still ringside; the fight had ended so quickly. Aaron paused long enough to let them take his picture with Angel at his side. He remembered his bet with Bob and resolved to call him as soon as he got home. He wanted to make sure that they got the press he’d promised.
The car pulled up and Aaron helped Angel into the back. Closing the door, he looked back at the lights flooding into the sky and thought about the furious fight he’d just seen. It filled him with exhilaration and he could feel his blood pumping in his veins. Yes, it was a night for great things.
***
Morelli was standing by an entrance when the second round ended abruptly. The crowd began to roar; at first it was the sound of approval that their champion had won, but some people were unhappy that it was all over so quickly. There was a surge of men toward the ring, fighting against the ticket holders who had been seated closer and were trying to leave. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes; since coming home from France, the threat of angry crowds made him nervous. At the front, there had been no escape, only forward into danger and death.
At first,
the crowd was moving slowly in both directions, but a bottleneck developed down below; men started shouting and shoving. It looked like it might get out of hand. Morelli moved into the aisle and followed a couple of roughnecks as they headed down.
Morelli heard a scream and saw a pale arm rise over the crush. It was a woman, wearing long white gloves, surrounded by the crowd. She struggled to move against the flow. Morelli immediately thought of Gladys Hart. Why the woman had come to the fight was beyond him, but she was in trouble. He pushed harder against the backs ahead of him. No one wanted to give way, even when he started yelling “Police, let me through.”
The crowd was growing angry and the men around him started shoving each other harder. One character in rough clothes and a battered bowler hat took a swing at a swell in a suit. The swell went down without a sound and the crowd moved over him. Morelli stopped to pull him to his feet and send him sputtering on his way upward and out of the arena. An elbow to his kidneys spun Morelli around, dropping him to his knees. His vision swam and suddenly he felt he was back in the woods of France, running through the dark, tripping and stumbling over downed trees, his Enfield rifle slippery in his hands. A buzzing roar filled his head and he shook his head to clear it, pulling himself up with the help of two men who had been trying to stand aside from the crush. Morelli took a deep breath and came back to the present. No Germans hiding here and no gunfire, at least so far, and he hoped it would stay that way.
Morelli continued pressing through the crowd headed up to the exits, slipping into openings between groups as quickly as he could. He reached the spot where he’d seen the woman’s arm and found her crouched beside a bench, a thin young man in an expensive suit bent over her, trying to protect her. Morelli knocked together a few heads, to clear some space, and then pulled the young man up by the arm. He came up swinging, until he caught sight of Morelli’s face and read the words “Police” on his lips.
Shattered Angel Page 7
