The Final Adversary

by Gilbert, Morris

  Barney Winslow listened quietly, his deep-set brown eyes half hidden. But at the last words, a gleam appeared. “I’ll kill this guy, Benny.”

  “Now you’re talkin’!” Meyers said, leading his fighter out of the dressing room. “He’s gonna tag you with a few, kid. He’s good—but he ain’t got no killer in him like you have. Just let him have his licks—then wipe him out!”

  The New York Arena had a name larger than the building deserved. It was no more than a factory that had gone bankrupt under the collapse brought on by President Grant’s corrupt administration. For years it had lain fallow until an enterprising young Jewish man named Danny Garfield had bought it on credit and turned it into a sports arena. The high ceiling permitted the construction of bleachers all around the center, with wooden benches radiating out from the ring. Sprinkled throughout were newly developed electric lights, which cast harsh shadows down on the referee and the fighters as they met in the ring.

  “Look!” cried Andy. “Over to the side! I think that’s Barney.”

  The four Winslows were seated on the top row of the bleachers. They were lucky to get those at five dollars apiece. As they had pushed their way through the crowd, several men made crude remarks about the women. Once it was almost too much for Mark and he angrily turned to strike the man, but Lola grabbed her husband’s arm, murmuring, “It’s all right, Mark.”

  After two five-round bouts, Esther whispered to Andy, “I feel as if someone is going to see me in a place like this. It’s awful!”

  Lola, on the other hand, wasn’t as uncomfortable, for she had grown up in a cantina in Mexico years ago and had been part owner of a gambling club in a Union Pacific construction town. The rough talk, the smoke, and the crudity did not shock her; however, the fights did. The barroom scraps she’d seen were nothing compared to the barbaric scene here. It seemed degrading to pay to watch two men maul each other, but she had chosen to come.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the cries of the crowd as the referee introduced the next bout. “Now for our semi-final contest, we have Davy O’Hara, at one hundred eighty-six pounds from San Francisco, facing Battling Barney Winslow, weighing in at one hundred eighty-one pounds from New York City.”

  He lowered his voice, said a few words, and the two contestants separated to wait for the bell.

  Barney had had no contact with his family for two years, and the change took them by surprise. His coarse black hair was cropped short, he’d put on weight, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders rippled as he slapped his gloves together. He turned just as the bell clanged, and Lola thought, I wouldn’t have known him!

  The fighters approached the referee in the center as he held out his hand, the two men touched gloves, and the fight began. Barney lunged forward, his right hand swinging up in a sweeping motion. O’Hara ducked easily and gave his opponent a sharp blow with his left. It wasn’t a hard jab, but it left a red spot on Winslow’s cheek. Barney pulled up, turned and moved forward, both hands slightly cocked at shoulder height, and once again maneuvered O’Hara into position, then made another charge. This time his fist caught O’Hara on the shoulder and spun him around. O’Hara twisted his body, took a short step to the left, and shot his left at Barney’s forehead.

  Mark leaned forward, oblivious to the crowd. He had been in many fights in his youth, and the sight of the two men throwing punches made his nerves tingle. He felt Lola clutch his arm, and heard Andy yell, “Come on, Barney!” Mark was a competitive man and understood Andy’s reaction. He, too, stretched forward, pulling for his son to strike O’Hara down.

  Lola hated every minute of it, and prayed that God would give her wisdom to deal with her son. She understood Mark’s and Andy’s response, for she knew men. But she knew as well that they had forgotten her son’s predicament—trapped in a world that would destroy him.

  When the bell sounded after three rounds, Barney dropped to the stool at the side of the ring and gulped down the water Meyers gave him. “You done good, Barney,” his trainer said. “He’s gettin’ tired. Can’t keep that dancin’ up all night!”

  Barney’s face was red and sweaty. The cut over his left eyebrow needed attention and Meyers dabbed at it, saying, “You ain’t gonna last for ten like this.” He peered down. “You got the nerve to go after him, Barney—I mean dig his grave?”

  Barney’s eyes glowed. “I’ll get him, Benny!”

  The bell rang, and Barney sprang like a cougar across the ring. His rushes had slowed down, and though O’Hara had gotten used to the rhythm of them, he was caught off guard. He managed to avoid Barney’s first wild blow but caught the second one square in the mouth. It drove him back into the ropes, his eyes glazed. The crowd jumped to its feet, screaming, “Get him, Barney! Get him!”

  There was no strategy in Barney’s movements. He simply punched wildly, driving home each blow with every ounce of strength, most of the jabs missing. But O’Hara could not avoid the savage attack. He was struck in the face, on the side of the neck, in the body, the last punch sending him to the floor, motionless. The referee waved Barney back and began to count: “One—two—three—”

  Slowly O’Hara roused, but his legs wouldn’t work. At the count of seven he stumbled to his feet, swaying groggily. The referee stepped back, and Barney rushed O’Hara, hitting the helpless fighter unmercifully.

  Lola watched as her son pelted the man in front of him, closing her eyes at last when the bloodied O’Hara fell to the canvas and lay still.

  “The winner by a knockout is Bat Winslow!” the referee shouted, and the crowd screamed in response.

  Barney felt Benny hugging him, and then the robe was on his shoulders. Men were shouting his name and crowding around to pat his back as Meyers led him through the packed aisles to the dressing room.

  Meyers removed Barney’s gloves and cleaned him up, chortling with glee at the victory. Just as Barney’s shirt was on, the door opened. A pair of soft arms circled his neck and he heard the cry, “You won! You won, Bat!”

  Barney felt a kiss on his bruised lips, then Sally said, “Come on! We’re going to have a victory celebration and drink champagne—all on Mr. Barone.”

  Tony stepped forward and smiled. “Bat, I never saw anything like it! No man alive could have stood up to you!”

  Barney grinned through puffy lips. “Well, O’Hara did a pretty good job of it.”

  “But you got him.” Tony waved his hands in the air. “Now let’s go. All on me—oh, this here is my new star—Katie Sullivan. Katie, meet Battling Barney Winslow.”

  Katie had been appalled by it all, but there was no threat in the fighter now. He regarded her through eyes almost in slits, then nodded. “Glad to know you, Katie.”

  At that moment the door opened again, and he saw several people framed in the doorway.

  “Hey, we’re leaving,” Tony said quickly. “No time for talk with your fans.”

  Barney’s eyes were still so swollen he couldn’t see clearly. Then he heard “Hello, son.”

  Dazed, Barney stared. This was worse than any blow he’d taken in the ring. He couldn’t seem to move. Suddenly, a cool pair of hands touched his cheeks, and he smelled his mother’s scent of lilacs.

  He blinked his eyes, trying to focus. Somehow he felt as if he’d stepped back into time. One of those times he’d come home from play, and his mother had met him, held his cheeks, and kissed him, saying what she said just now.

  “Hello, Barney.”

  His mother! It didn’t make sense. Then he saw his father watching him with a strained look on his face. Andy! Esther! They were all there!

  The roaring in his ears increased. He couldn’t think clearly. Finally, he ducked his head and said in a husky whisper, “Hello, Mom.”

  Then he looked around and blurted out the words he thought were sealed forever: “This—this is my family.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Caught!

  Tony Barone perceived immediately that Mark Winslow was an important man, so made the
most of it by commandeering two carriages to take them to Antoine’s, one of New York’s best dinner clubs. There he slipped the head waiter twenty dollars to give them a good table, then arranged the seating, placing himself between Kate and Barney, with the boxer’s family across from them.

  During the conversation, Tony sensed the tension between the Winslows and Barney and made a mental note to find out why. The six-course dinner, served by a waiter and two assistants, began with oysters on a half shell and ended with delicate servings of ice cream. Between the oysters and the ice cream there were soup, fish, guinea hen and salad, vegetables, and side dishes of salted almonds and celery stuffed with cheese.

  “Come on, Katie,” Tony coaxed as the waiter brought a French white wine with the first two courses. “Drink up.”

  “Oh, Tony, I don’t know—”

  He had already discovered she didn’t drink. Her father had been a drunkard, and when Katie left home, she’d promised her mother she wouldn’t drink.

  “Why, this isn’t liquor, Katie,” he told her. “It’s only wine! People in Italy drink it instead of water.” He poured her a glass and urged her on. “This is just part of learning to be with people—important people. It’s not good manners to sit there while others are drinking. Go on, just a sip.”

  He noted with satisfaction as the meal progressed that she drank two glasses of white wine; then when champagne was served with the third course, she had two of those as well. “See? It’s good for you,” he said, giving her arm a squeeze. “That wasn’t so bad, was it now?”

  Katie had been stimulated by the wine, though she didn’t realize it. Her cheeks grew pink and she began to talk more than Tony had ever heard her. By the time the meal was over, she was laughing at Tony’s jokes and accepted his invitation to dance.

  “I don’t know how to do this dance,” she giggled as they moved across the floor.

  “You’re doing fine, Katie—just fine,” he said, holding her close for the waltz. “Say, did you notice that something’s going on between Bat and his folks? They ain’t sayin’ much of anything to each other.” He was thinking ahead. “But the old man is rich, and it’s always good to know rich men, Katie. Maybe he’ll back you in a broadway show or something. Be nice to him, kid.”

  “They seem like a nice family,” she said. “But I probably won’t see them anymore.”

  When the music stopped they returned to the table, where Benny Meyers was lauding Barney’s accomplishments. “Why, folks, you got to be real proud of this boy! He ain’t got much science about him, but he’s tough! He’ll be champeen inside two years, I tell ya.”

  “It’s a hard way to make a living,” Mark countered.

  “The way Cleveland has let things go to pot, Winslow,” Tony interjected, “a man’s got to make a living any way he can. Why, even the Union Pacific’s having a hard time keeping afloat, they say. Anything to that?”

  He referred to the economic panic that swept the country the previous year. Thousands were out of work, gangs of hobos tramped aimlessly about the country, eating at soup kitchens. In desperation a protest march was organized by a man named Jacob S. Coxey, and the mob headed for Washington, where they sang: “We’re coming, Grover Cleveland, 500,000 strong. We’re marching into Washington to right the nation’s wrong.”

  Mark Winslow leveled his eyes at Barone. “The Union’s had worse times. We’ll survive President Cleveland just as we’ve survived other presidents.”

  The two men continued to exchange views, with a few comments from the rest of the party—except Barney, who had remained silent the entire evening. The presence of his family disturbed him intensely and he wished he could leave. With relief he accepted Sally’s urgent plea to dance.

  Sally’s attractiveness had long given way to the coarsened life she lived. She was overdressed and her poor speech marked her position clearly. “Say, sweetie,” she cooed, “why ain’t you never told me you come from a ritzy family? That ring your ma’s wearing—ain’t it something? Hey, maybe we can go visit ’em—bet they got a fancy place, ain’t they, Bat?”

  Barney ignored her banal chatter. When he first met her, he had been flattered, but soon tired of her mindless talk and incessant desire for gifts. His mind drifted to his family. Why did they come to see me fight? They hate my way of life. As he moved around the floor with Sally’s voice humming in his ear, he thought about the heated discussions he and his family had before he left home. It was like another world—both pleasant and terrible.

  Dad looks good, he thought, glancing at his father. I wonder if he ever thinks about the time he took me fishing in Minnesota? That was the best time I ever had—just him and me. Andy got sick and couldn’t go, and the two of us camped in an old cabin for two weeks. We fished and hunted, and just talked and talked! He told me all about when he was young and how he fought in the war—I ain’t never forgot that!

  The later years, he remembered, were filled with efforts to please his father. Once he’d studied night and day, trying to make all A’s, but in spite of that, he’d made mostly C’s. Andy got all A’s. Mom tried to say nice things about my grades—but Dad never said a word. That brought back other memories of trying to fit into the family, but by the time he was twelve years old, he had understood that he’d never be smart enough to please them.

  When he went to college, he was convinced he’d never make it. And with that attitude, it was easy to be lured into a group of drinking and disgruntled students. By the middle of his second semester, he’d been dismissed for his behavior. The thought of his father’s displeasure still raked across his nerves. Should have gone on my own then, he thought. That job with the Union my dad got me was too much. Everybody expected me to be as smart as Mark Winslow—I was a fool to try it. The last scene before leaving home flashed into his mind. Standing in front of his parents, pale with anger, he had shouted, “I’ve never been able to please you—and I never will! You want me to be perfect! Well, you’ve got Andy—let him be perfect. I’m getting away from here—and I won’t ever come back!”

  That scene had become a nightmare. All across the country it had awakened him in a cold sweat. He’d gone down fast; and in drunken stupors and in jails, he’d hear himself shouting, “I won’t ever come back!” He’d turned to fighting to make big money, so when Benny Meyers had picked him off the street and trained him, it had been like shutting a final door to his past. Prizefighting had brought adulations from both Benny and the crowd that followed him. For the first time he felt accepted, worth something—and it had been pleasant. Even some of the upper crust were drawn to the violence of the ring. Barney himself disliked fighting. It gave him no pleasure to smash another man into a bleeding hulk, and the cries from the crowd made him uneasy, for he knew how fickle they were—cheering just as loudly if he were the one being beaten!

  When the music ended, he and Sally joined the rest, where he sat with downcast eyes. Stealing looks at his parents from time to time, he was confused by the contradictory memories rising in his mind. His mother was as beautiful and calm as ever. He remembered when he’d cut his foot, and she had held him in her arms, keeping the gaping wound together with one strong hand while she stroked his head with the other. The sight of blood had terrified him, but he remembered as clearly as if it were yesterday how he had clung to her, and how her hands had soothed his fear. His father looked no different. An overwhelming desire to please his father stirred him again, a desire he had never been able to forget. But he shoved the old impulse down and glanced at Esther and Andy.

  Esther, he saw, was uncomfortable, with carefully hidden disgust. She had looked at him all evening as if he were a stranger—and a frightening stranger at that! Barney turned quickly to look at his brother.

  Andrew was smiling and talking animatedly to Katie Sullivan. The young woman seemed captivated by Andy’s good looks and quick wit. Guess she’s like all the rest, Barney thought without resentment. Long ago he’d lost hope of being the sort of person his brother was,
but suddenly a bitterness hit him. Why did they have to come down here? They hate it—so why don’t they stay in their nice, neat little world and leave me alone?

  Andy was unaware of Barney’s stony looks toward him. As always, he was fascinated by any new experience, and the fight had stirred his imagination. “First prizefight I ever saw, Miss Sullivan,” he said excitedly. “But you’ve seen quite a few, I suppose?”

  “Oh no!” Katie said quickly. “It was my first one, too.”

  “Oh?” Andy responded with surprise. He knew the beautiful young woman was a dance-hall girl, though he had no more experience with that type than with boxers. He studied her carefully, taking in the creamy, velvety skin, the glowing eyes and the air of seeming innocence. The other girl, Sally Danton, was the opposite—highly made-up complexion, revealing clothing, and cheap, bold looks. She fit the part.

  “Miss Sullivan,” he said, “you’re a singer in Mr. Barone’s . . . ah, place?”

  Katie noticed his hesitation, and a flush touched her throat. He had been about to say “saloon,” she sensed, then had settled for a kinder term. Katie was still sensitive, and merely nodded. But Barone had heard Winslow’s remark and leaned forward to say, “You bet she is, Mr. Winslow! But she won’t stay long—too good for the place.” Barone gave Katie a familiar pat on the shoulder, smiling at her possessively. “She’s got talent, and I’m going to see that she goes right to the top.” He smiled, his hand tightening on her shoulder. “I’m taking care of this young lady,” he said smoothly. “With my help she’ll be the toast of New York!”

  Despite Barone’s flashy good looks and intense masculinity, Lola knew he was a predator. She had learned to recognize the type when she was a girl. Her eyes caught those of her husband, and signaled her desire to leave.