Fighter's Alley

by Heather Duffy Stone

  Text copyright © 2014 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  Cover and interior photographs © iStockphoto.com/Steve Krumenaker (brick background); © iStockphoto.com/tomograf (paper texture); © iStockphoto.com/Abomb Industries Design (woodrat); © iStockphoto.com/ankur patil (fist).

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  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data for Fighter’s Alley is on file at the Library of Congress.

  ISBN: 978–1–4677–1460–0 (LB)

  ISBN: 978–1–4677–2408–1 (eBook)

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 12/31/13

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2408-1 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-4004-3 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-4003-6 (mobi)

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was like they always said—everything around him turned invisible. Everything except the boy who stood in front of him, fists held close to his nose and eyes narrowed in concentration. The boy’s name was Durham, and he had won his last three fights.

  Will raised his fists too and tried to narrow his eyes, but all he could feel was the shaking of his knees and the churning of his stomach. There was a shout and a roar—Oakley announcing the fight’s start and the crowd cheering. Or jeering.

  Quick, Will thought, remember everything you’ve watched, everything you’ve heard. Remember to block with your left and—

  BAM.

  He saw red, then white. His cheek pulsed with pain, and in less than a second, he was on his back. The grinning, sweating Durham stood over him.

  “Take it easy on the kid,” Oakley muttered, hauling Will up to a standing position. “That’s one,” he said to Will.

  Will blinked and touched his hand to the side of his face, now pounding with pain. He pulled back his fingers—sticky. Blood. Something about his own blood gave him a spiked sense of energy. He bounced on his legs, which had stopped shaking. The faces and sounds of the crowd started to come into focus—mouths open in shouts, dangling cigarettes, fists clutching bills.

  “Get him outta there,” someone shouted.

  “The boy can’t fight!”

  Durham’s fist came toward Will like a cannon, but somehow Will leaned away and the fist fell through the air. Will pulled his arm back and thrust his fist forward, as fast and hard as he’d practiced. He hit Durham’s shoulder and heard a crack of skin and bone. Durham stumbled back, still grinning.

  Will bounced. He knew he had to keep bouncing, because if he was bouncing, he was moving. A moving target. But he was thinking too hard about bouncing. Or about not bouncing enough. This time, he heard the crack before he felt it, like wood against stone. The pain spread across his eyes, and he was back, half on his knees, nearly to the floor. Oakley pulled him up by his arm.

  This time, Will didn’t wipe the blood off his face, and he stopped listening to the crowd. He bounced and thrust his fist forward, bounced and thrust until finally his knuckles cracked Durham’s cheekbones. Durham stumbled backward and fell.

  The crowd hushed for just a second before the voices rose, angrier and louder than before. They’d placed their bets on Durham. Will was threatening their money. Will had been watching the fights at the Woodrat for almost three months now. He knew these guys took their bets seriously.

  He’d been waiting for his dad to come out of the bank. He was always supposed to wait with the driver, he knew this. But on that day, it felt like he’d been waiting for hours, and Joe, the driver, was distracted. Will had been throwing stones at the sidewalk when he heard the muffled roar of a crowd and followed it down a narrow alley. The door to the Woodrat was ajar. Tracey, the bartender, leaned against it, one foot propped on the step inside. Will could see the shadow of crowds. He followed the noise past Tracey, who leered but didn’t stop him.

  Shoulder to shoulder, men filled the smoky room, jostling and yelling, shaking fists and patting backs. Past the men, at the back of the room, two fighters stood inside a circle painted on the ground, a tangle of muscle and skin. Will had never seen anything like it. It wasn’t just fighting; it was carefully timed, perfectly skilled. The crowd cheered, and their cheers made the fighters stronger. Will was sure of it.

  It only took a few minutes for the surly and terrifying and certainly in-charge Lew Mayflower to take notice of Will—to notice the suit Will’s father made him wear and the polish of his shoes, and to take Will by his collar and toss him out the door, to Tracey’s feet. But Will was hooked. He came back every chance he could.

  He’d watch from the doorway, sneaking in to the crowd, making allegiances and taking advice from anyone who would talk to him. And today, he’d had his chance. Durham, a lightweight fighter, had pummeled through all of his opponents. But he still wanted to fight. And there was still money to be made. And Mayflower, in a particularly good mood, had caught sight of Will.

  “Throw the kid in there, why don’t ya?” he’d called, to the delight of Durham’s supporters. And now, here Will was. He’d been knocked down twice, but he’d been the knock-downer at least once. And he’d channeled all the fights he’d watched—all the best fighters, men who looked like they moved without planning, pivoting on one foot, never losing balance, their fists fast and powerful. Will channeled all of this.

  He leaned back away from Durham’s punch, stretched back with his shoulder, and threw his arm forward with all of his strength. Boom. Fist to cheek, and Durham was on the ground again.

  Will’s stomach had stopped churning. It flew with excitement. He’d done it. He’d knocked his opponent down. In the ring. Not once but twice. But he was exhausted from the impact, the excitement, the bouncing. His moment of glory was just that—in a dizzying blur, Will was knocked to the ground. Again. And again.

  The fight was over. Oakley hauled him from the ring and tossed him toward the door. But it was too late. Will knew he’d never forget the feeling of this first fight. He knew now he needed to win.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “He’s too young for these events,” his mother was saying as Will hovered outside the door to the drawing room.

  “He’s fifteen years old—old enough to represent this family. If I’m going to be mayor, the people need to see my family is behind me.”

  “Of course we’re behind you,” Will’s mother replied, “but these dinners are a bore for Will. You know that. It does no harm to let him stay home for a few of them.”

  There was silence, and then Will heard his father grumble. But he knew it was enough—his mother had won. Will had escaped another one of his dad’s campaign dinners. They would leave, and he’d be free to sneak to the Woodrat. They’d be gone at least three hours, enough time to get there, watch a few rounds, and be safely in bed before they were home.

  Before he could retreat back up the stairs, his mother slipped out of the drawing room and saw him standing there. She smiled and took his hand. “It’s very important to your father that you attend the next dinner,” sh
e said.

  “You mean it’s important to his campaign for mayor,” Will muttered. His mother just shook her head.

  “It’s important to him,” she said. At the mention of Will’s father, the man barreled out of the drawing room. Tall and broad-shouldered and square-jawed, Mr. Atwood was everything Will wasn’t. He was strong and imposing, and Will was certain he hated that his son was his opposite.

  “Your mother excused you from this event,” his father glared, straightening his hat. “But it’s time for you to start taking responsibility and become a part of this campaign.”

  Will looked down. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled. He had no intention of being a part of any campaign.

  Only a few minutes later, Will hovered inside the doorway, watching his parents depart. Maybe, just maybe, if he got to the Woodrat in time, he’d be picked for another fight. He held his breath. While his mom pulled her skirts inside the carriage, his father turned around. Will was sure his father had seen him. But Mr. Atwood just touched the brim of his hat, said something to the driver, and climbed inside the carriage. Will still waited until the street was empty. He leaned out of the doorway and looked around.

  Clear.

  He started to run.

  The fights started at five, and it was already seventeen minutes past. There was no way Will would even be considered if he didn’t get there by twenty past. He tore down Orchard Street and turned the corner at Eldridge. The street smelled like bread. There was a crowd just up ahead and a toppled tower of boxes in front of him. He didn’t have time for obstacles.

  Sweat was already pouring down Will’s neck. That’s when he noticed the alley. A light glimmered at the other end, and so he banked a quick left and started to run.

  The man stepped out of a doorway just as Will was passing. His head was down, and he wouldn’t have expected anyone to be running at top speed through the narrow stream anyway. The man was carrying a tower of crates, and Will could see the muscles pulsing in the man’s arms. But even though Will had a moment to think, there was no time to stop and the collision was full force—boy against man, crates flying in a pop. A burst of fog covered the scene. No, Will realized, looking down at the layer of powder on his skin—not fog, flour.

  As the cloud settled, Will looked over and saw the man seated against the wall, his knees pushed up. Will was on his back. The exploded sacks of flour drooped over the man’s broken crates.

  Will managed a hasty “Sorry!” before jumping to his feet. The man looked at him and shook his head. He too jumped to his feet, a move that showed surprising strength and ease for someone whose face was lined with years and whose hair was tinged with gray. Will paused. There was something familiar in the man or at least a hint of something. Then he remembered the time.

  “Really, sir, sorry!” He took off down the alley. Will felt bad about leaving the old man there, in all the mess, but he was late. And he thought of the waves of muscles traveling down the old man’s arms. The fellow looked more than capable of picking up a few sacks of flour.

  As Will turned the corner down the last stretch, it all came together. The legend. The whispers around the bar of the unstoppable Italian fighter who had dominated the sport. Who was supposed to be the greatest fighter ever. Even as an Italian. Even though he was small in size, for many years he towered over the others, undefeated. He had muscles like concrete and fought with terrifying persistence. They said he was an orphan, so he had nothing to live for but fighting. They said he’d been picked off the streets by the Patron, who’d once ran a club even bigger than the Woodrat and who had been even meaner and uglier than Lew Mayflower. The Italian had made the Patron a fortune. But something had happened. Something about refusing to fix a fight. Something had happened, and the Italian had been banned from the sport forever.

  And that was him. Carrying sacks of flour out of a back alley. Knocked to the ground by the likes of Will. The greatest fighter of all time.

  Will couldn’t think about it. It was too depressing. And he was late.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mayflower had a face crisscrossed with scars and divots. His skin was white with dashes of gray and purple scars. Around his eyes, the skin was thin and heavy. Will could see Mayflower shaking his head as soon as he walked in to the Woodrat.

  “Forget it, kid,” Mayflower grumbled around the cigar that perpetually hung from the left side of his mouth.

  “Sir, I made it on time,” Will insisted, knowing he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure whether his insistence upon calling Mayflower “sir” was working for him or against him, but he had been taught to respect his elders, even the least respectable among them.

  “And you still can’t fight worth a hoot,” Mayflower said. He turned to Tracey to collect a fistful of money that’d been bet on the five thirty fight. But he didn’t kick Will out.

  Will hung at the side of the room, his view of the fighters’ circle obscured by broad shoulders and thick necks and smoke and dark. He kicked around the side wall until he found a crate and jumped up. The circle was lit from above, with the rest of the room mostly dark.

  The evening fights usually started with the younger fighters. Will knew both boys in the ring. Durham and an Irish kid named Colin, who had hands like bricks and a back twice the size of Durham. As Colin turned and grinned, Will could see, even from afar, that the kid was missing his top teeth. A beast. But Will had faith in Durham. Durham was fast.

  Something strange happened then, something that would change everything for Will. Mayflower himself stepped into the ring, chewing on his cigar, holding up his arms. The crowd hushed to a silence.

  “Now I know you all are here to see the fights, and I won’t talk for long.” This was met with cheers. “But I want you all to know about some events coming up. We’ve all heard about what’s going on out at Coney Island—they’re building up the boardwalk out there, and people are putting lots of money in it. And I like money.” Cheers and laughter. Will’s stomach flip-flopped. He had a feeling something big was happening.

  “Now, we’ve decided to open up fighting tents. Put our kind of attraction out there,” Mayflower said. “Bring the fights to the people. And we’re going to start out with a few big exhibition fights at the end of the summer. So here it is. Qualifying rounds at the Woodrat in two weeks, exhibition fights one month from today. There’s a prize for each weight and a chance to be in some regular fights out there.”

  Mayflower lowered his arms and jumped down from the ring, gesturing to Oakley to get the fight started. But Will couldn’t even watch. This was it. This was his chance. He had to qualify.

  “There’s no way you’ll qualify. But you’re not half bad.”

  Will turned at the voice behind him. “Me?” he asked into the shadows of the bar, to the voice that was reading his mind.

  “Yeah, you’re fast. Some of the guys even said they’d lay money on you if you had any skill.”

  Will realized it was Silas talking. The kid leaned heavily on a broom. Silas worked at the Woodrat, sweeping, taking out trash, collecting bets, hovering in corners. He heard all the secrets. Even though the kid was scrawny and sort of odd, Will felt an inexplicable respect for him. He couldn’t help but feel truth in this news.

  “Really?”

  Silas shrugged. “Yeah, but Mayflower is right. You still can’t fight.”

  Will felt his exhilaration deflating.

  “You know what you need?” Silas said, staring up at the ring where the two fighters were preparing to battle each other.

  “What?” Will was desperate.

  “You need a trainer.”

  Of course he did. He’d thought of this a million times. But all the trainers thought he was a joke. They’d seen Mayflower cast him aside again and again. He’d asked everyone in the bar to train him, and they’d all laughed him off.

  “You need someone,” Silas went on, “who’s out of the game. Who doesn’t know who you are. Who needs something from you.”

  “From me? Righ
t.” Will kicked at the crate.

  “Well, you’ve got money, that’s for sure.” Silas picked up his broom and swept toward the bar.

  These fighters didn’t want his money. They wanted a sure thing. And they didn’t think he was it. He needed someone who needed his money.

  “You’re brilliant!” he exclaimed to Silas’s bent back.

  Brilliant! Will could get some money. He could help the Italian. He’d apologize for the collision. He’d pay for the lost flour. He’d get the Italian to train him. The Italian didn’t know anything about Will. He was out of the sport. But he was maybe the best fighter in the history of New York. The best fighter in the history of New York could surely take Will’s speed and his persistence and make him a contender. The Italian. Brilliant.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Before he could begin his training, Will had his family to deal with. More specifically, his father. According to Will’s mom, his father was most definitely going to be mayor. He was the only candidate, and the city supported him. But they still had to campaign. This is why politics made no sense to Will. And it meant going to breakfasts and dinners and fund-raisers and smiling and wearing a tie. And pretending he’d vote for his father if he could do such a thing as vote.

  But the truth was, Will probably wouldn’t vote for him even if he were the only candidate. And his mom had to do all of this campaign nonsense too, even though she couldn’t even vote. None of it made any sense.

  Will wasn’t sure quite what he had done wrong in his father’s eyes, other than being born, but it only got worse from there. He had spent a lot of time wishing his mom and dad would have more kids, so there could be someone his dad would hate more or love more or at least point his attention to sometimes. But at this point, it was clear that Will was on his own. So mostly he tried to stay out of his dad’s way.

  His mom was okay. She was usually on his side too. She got him out of most of the suit-wearing events and kept him out of his dad’s path when his dad was not having a good day. But even his mom said it was important that people see his dad as a “family man” and a “proud father.” Will didn’t feel like saying out loud that neither thing was true and that must be why people said all politicians were liars. So he woke up on Saturday morning and dressed in the suit his mom had laid out for the Republican Club breakfast and didn’t say a word.