by Jack Tunney
Which is when I heard, "Stop!"
It was Bill, staggering into the ring. His face was black and blue and cut. But his eyes were pleading as he shouted, "Don't do it, Jimmy. Please!"
"Back away, Bill. This is my fight now."
"You don't understand!"
My right was still in the air.
I looked at Bill's brutalized face. "He's my son," Bill said.
***
The kid was out and being attended to. The sheriff had arrived and was having a talk with the barker.
And I was once more in the tent with Bill.
"It was back in the Depression," Bill told me. "I was drifting, riding the rails, looking for any work I could find. I ended up slingin' hash on Route 66. That's where I met Mary. She was waitin' on tables."
"Like my Ruby," I said.
"Well, I'm sorry to say, I didn't behave like a man. I got my girl pregnant and her parents told her not to marry me. She went away and had that baby up in Fresno. I found out where she was. I went to see her and the baby and she told me to get away, that I ruined her life, that she never wanted to see me again. I sent her money, but she always sent it back. She moved somewheres else, and the war broke out and I tried to forget 'em out at sea. But I never could shake it that I had a son. You know what I'm talking about, Jimmy?"
"I think maybe I do," I said.
"Then a few years ago I hired a private dick to find 'em, and he came back with a picture of the boy. He actually went inside Mary's house and snatched that photo for me. I sent it back to her, with a note and a return address, the carny has an address in Tennessee. And I guess that's how my son traced me. And when he stepped in the ring tonight, I knew him right away. I deserved everything he gave me, Jimmy. And I didn't want you hurting him anymore. I give him and his mom enough for a lifetime."
And then Big Bill Wannamaker put his head inside one of his big mitts and turned away from me.
Well, if there's one thing that moves an Irishman's heart it's the sight of another man in tears. Without fully understanding what I was doing, I left Bill's tent and went over to the medic tent where an old doctor with whiskey breath was patching up the kid.
When he saw me, the kid said, "I want a rematch. I'm gonna murder you."
"Belay that," I said and pulled up a stool and sat across from him. "You're not gonna murder anybody. You're gonna honor your father and mother."
"What the hell?" he said.
"It's a commandment, son, and your father's paid for his sins. Now go in there and be a man and shake his hand."
"How do you know about it?"
"I'm a friend of your old man. He's the one that stopped me from laying you out for good."
The kid stood up. "What if I don't wanna?"
Balling up my fists, I said, "You really want a rematch?"
Sometimes I can get a smoldering flame in my green eyes, and it makes 'em look like jade on fire. That's what I must've had now, because the kid dropped his head. And then nodded.
***
I left old Bill and his kid, Tommy was his name it turned out, sitting in Bill's tent. They were talking at least. The rest was gonna be up to them.
What was up to me was finding Ruby.
She was sitting in the jalopy, Steve lyin' on the back seat.
I slipped into the front and closed the door. "Honey—"
"You don't have to say anything," Ruby said.
"But––"
She put her hand on my cheek. She kept it there, soft and warm, and looked at me in the moonlight. She smiled, too, like she understood me even more than I understand myself.
In the back Steve said, Boof.
***
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I read an old boxing story once about a fighter who gets in the ring with his own son. I liked that, but wanted to take the idea in another direction, to see how Irish Jimmy Gallagher would handle it. So I did.
JAMES SCOTT BELL
James Scott Bell grew up in Los Angeles, where the Irish Jimmy Gallagher stories are set. He heard stories from his father and grandfather about Art Aragon, the "Golden Boy" of East Los Angeles, and other boxers of the era. After several years practicing law in LA, Jim turned to writing and has gone on to an award-winning career as a thriller writer and author of books on the craft of fiction. His Gallagher stories were inspired by the boxing tales of Robert E. Howard and Jim's general love of the pulp era.
www.jamesscottbell.com
ROUND 8: BUSHWHACKED
JAMES HOPWOOD
Farrellization [Fah-rel-yhz-ay-shun]
noun circa 1854
1. an unjust beating administered by
Trooper Gladstone Farrell of the
Victorian Colonial Police Force.
DAY ONE
CENTRAL VICTORIAN GOLDFIELDS,
AUSTRALIA, 1854
In the shadow of the poppet head of the Central Deborah mine, the troopers were being addressed by their superior officer. They stood to attention in two rows, their bright red tunics the only color in a drab gray winter's morning.
“I expect my officers to always be virtuous, honorable, and carry out their duties to the letter of the law,” the Superintendent announced loudly, as he paced back and forward before his men.
Superintendent Lanfield of the Victorian Colonial Police Force was a stern man, standing five-feet-eleven, with ramrod straight posture. His hair was gray and his face was heavily whiskered. In his right hand, he held a riding crop, and at intervals throughout his speech, he would smack it into his left hand to give his words emphasis.
There was trouble brewing in the mining camps and he intended to quash it before it exploded. Miners had been complaining about their treatment at the hands at certain members of the constabulary.
“If I hear any more reports of troopers taking bribes in exchange for preferential treatment, the officer involved will be summarily dismissed from the force.”
Trooper Gladstone Farrell had heard this speech from Lanfield many times before, and as on past occasions, he completely ignored it.
It was a grand gesture by Lanfield to speak of virtue and honor, but it wasn't he who did the policing. It wasn't he who had to deal with the disparate lawless rabble that descended on the goldfields from all over the world. But Farrell did, and he knew only one way to do it, and that was through fear.
Trooper Farrell was one-hundred and eighty pounds of meanness, and hardly any of those pounds were fat. He stood five-foot-six tall, and was broad across the shoulders. His face was round, and his nose was small and squat across his face. His eyes, were deep brown, and were close together, but managed to see everything. Above his mouth a sloppily trimmed, gray flecked mustache adorned his upper lip.
Farrell had a fearsome reputation throughout the Central Victorian Goldfields. He was not in the least concerned at keeping the peace. As far as he was concerned, 'Gold Fever' was about money, and he did everything possible to get his share. However, this did not include hard labor, such as digging or panning for gold. His methods were much simpler. He would allow others to do the hard graft, and when they had found a few ounces he would swoop – always in the capacity of a custodian of the law. Most of the miners in the area didn't have licenses, so when Farrell came calling, they either had to pay a portion of their diggings or face a hefty fine. Either way, Farrell got their gold or their money.
Of course, there were a few who refused to pay. They learned the hard way, and their refusal to acquiesce gave birth to the term 'Farrellization'. Farrell was a brutally aggressive man, and undeniably talented with his fists or a club. Those who opposed him were beaten black and blue, until they surrendered their hard earned gold.
Lanfied finished his address, and dismissed his men, except Farrell.
“Farrell, I'd like a word before you go,” he said as the other troopers drifted away.
Farrell stopped and waited impatiently as Lanfield approached him.
“I've been hearing stories about you, Trooper, and I
don't like them one bit,” Lanfield stated.
“Don't believe everything you hear, sir. Disgruntled miners are liable to say anything to get out of paying a fine,” Farrell responded.
“Yes. But your name comes up more than most. I meant what I said, Farrell. Bribery and extortion will not be tolerated. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir,” Farrell answered.
Lanfield stared at Farrell, trying to fathom the man in front of him. Outwardly, Farrell appeared to be the perfect trooper. He wore his uniform with spit polish pride. His scarlet tunic was spotless, and the white collar, epaulets and sash gleaming brightly. His knee-high black leather boots had been highly polished until a reflection could be seen in them. The only sign of Farrell's inner corruption was his face, which was bloated from excessive drinking, and the whites of his eyes were yellow. Looking into those eyes, there was no sign of fear, remorse or most importantly, respect. Farrell didn't respect anything or anyone. He was only out for himself.
Lanfield dismissed Farrell, and watched as the trooper trudged off. There was no doubt about it, Farrell was rotten to the core. Lanfield wanted him out of the service. But first he needed a reason.
DAY TWO
The Star of Erin Hotel was practically empty, with only a few patrons scattered throughout the premises. The pub itself was a grand two storey affair with a wide verandah out front. Inside, the walls were paneled to shoulder height, in rich polished mahogany. Above the paneling, the latest patterned green wallpaper, imported from Europe, ran to the ceiling. The bar was long enough to provide standing room for thirty men at a time. Behind it hung a large oil painting of voluptuous nude woman, reclining on a chaise lounge. The proprietor believed it gave the bar a touch of sophistication.
Despite the salubrious nature of the establishment, the clientele were a mixed bunch. As was often the case, old silver-haired 'Wild' Joe Flynn, was perched over the bar with a dark ale in his hand. Joe was as rough as the day was long, and looked as if he hadn't washed in weeks. He took a long swallow of ale, then wiped the froth from his whiskers with the back of his hand.
“You shoulda seen 'em here last night, waving all that money around,” Flynn said.
“Who was waving their money around?” asked the bartender, as he dried and polished some glasses with his apron.
“The Clancy brothers. You know... those two new Irish prospectors from Kangaroo Flat. They must have found themselves a nice little claim. Yes-siree. The way they was buying drinks and carryin' on, I'd say they have them selves a nice little earner.”
“Well, it's good to hear someone has found some color. There's way too many folk around here, just struggling to survive.”
“Ain't that the hard truth,” Flynn agreed as he lowered his empty beer glass, and nodded for another.
The barman obliged.
At the other end of the bar, reading a newspaper, and nursing a sherry was Trooper Gladstone Farrell. He may have appeared totally absorbed in his reading, but in fact had heard every word the men had shared, and made a mental note. The Clancy brothers were worthy of his attention.
DAY THREE
At the crack of dawn, Farrell turned up at the Kangaroo Flat mining site seeking the Clancy brothers. Mounted on his gray mare, he rode through the tents and shanties scattered throughout the dig. The fog had barely lifted, and the air was still, the only sound was of Farrell's horse as it snorted, and its hooves as she plodded through the mud.
It was breakfast time, and most of the miners were out of their billets and were seated on logs or crates around campfires, boiling billies and cooking damper. As Farrell rode, weaving through the diggings, he stared down at the miners with open contempt. The miners did not return his gaze for fear of retribution. Farrell's hellfire reputation was well known throughout the district.
At the far end of the camp, he eased his mare up alongside a small two-man tent near the creek and dismounted allowing the reigns to fall freely. Nobody appeared to be about. He approached the front of the tent.
“I be looking for the Clancy brothers. Daniel and Liam Clancy,” he yelled.
A scrawny man with a tired, but clean-shaven face stepped from the tent. He was wearing patched breeches, and had a blanket over his bare shoulders. Liam Clancy was in his early thirties, and prematurely balding, with wisps of ginger hair circling his skull like a halo. On the odd occasion when he would smile, revealed a man with severe dental problems, with many teeth missing.
“I'm Liam Clancy. What do you want?” the man said with a thick Irish brogue.
“I hear you Clancy boys have come into a bit of powder,” Farrell said.
“Mebbe. What concern is it of yours?”
“None at all. I have just come to check on your licenses. You do have mining licenses?”
“Licenses. What licenses?”
“It's the law in the Colony of Victoria that all prospectors are required to obtain a mining license, and I take it by your response, you are not in possession of one.”
“Look, there seems to be some kind of misunderstanding. My brother and I are just trying to make a few quid. We don't know about mining licenses.”
“Well, now you know. And so you don't forget, you are now required to pay a thirty pound fine for breaking the law.”
“Thirty pounds? I'll be blowed,” Liam said angrily, crossing his arms defiantly.
At his outburst, the tent flap flew open and out stepped his brother Daniel. The Clancy brothers were chalk and cheese. Whereas Liam was worn and broken down, Danny Clancy was in good physical shape. He was a few years younger than his brother, with broad shoulders, and his arms were well muscled. His hair was fair, but as he hadn't attended to it as yet, it stuck up like a bird's nest.
“What's going on here?” he asked, approaching the two men.
“This here fella says we owe thirty pounds for a mining license,” Liam explained, waving his arm at Farrell.
“A mining license is only eight pound,” Farrell interjected.
“Eight pounds?” Danny said confused. “What's this about thirty pounds then?”
“The fine is thirty pound,” Farrell said coldly. “The license is another eight pound on top of that.”
Liam's blood boiled. The cheek of the man. If he wasn't an officer of the law, Liam would have shown him what for!
“Thirty-eight pounds,” Liam stated angrily. “We owe thirty-eight pounds?”
“You can either pay me the money right now, or I'll be forced to bring you boys in. How does ninety days in gaol sit with you men?”
There was no humor in Farrell's eyes. The threat was genuine. Farrell began toying with the pistol at his side to reinforce the point.
“No. We are willing to pay,” Liam grudgingly stated. “It's just that we don't have the money on us.”
“I can take your payment in gold dust.”
“We don't have any of that either.”
“That's not what I hear. I have heard you boys have been doing all right, and were kicking your heels up a bit in town last night.”
“That may be the case, but we don't happen to have the money at this moment.”
“Then I'll have to take you in.”
“No. Wait. Surely we can come to some kind of arrangement.”
“What kind of arrangement?” Farrell asked.
“In three days time, Danny here, is scheduled to fight Kip O'Connor for some big money. We will pay you then.”
“Big money, eh? How sure are you that your brother will win?” Farrell asked skeptically.
Liam stifled a grin.
“He'll win. It's a sure thing. That's where our money is. We bet all of it on Danny to win,” Liam responded, slapping his brother heartily on the back. “Just give us three days and we'll come up with your money.”
Farrell looked Danny up and down.
“You a good fighter, boy?” Farrell asked.
It was Danny's turn to stifle a laugh.
“What's so funny,” Farrell queried
, his brow furrowed, and his eyes full of anger. “It would appear that you boys are not taking me seriously?”
“We are, sir, it's just that this fight is going to be kinda one sided,” Danny said.
“What do you mean by that?”
Liam cut back into the conversation. He didn't want Danny to reveal their secret.
“It's simple. The man we've placed the bet with is O'Connor's manager, Colin Fitzpatrick, and we happen to know something that he doesn't,” Liam said cryptically.
“What would that be?”
“I'd rather not say,” Liam responded, drawing back.
This angered Farrell more, who stepped forward, and pulled the blanket from Liam's shoulders, exposing him to the cold morning air.
“The way I see it,” Farrell roared, “is that I should be taking you two men to gaol. Now if there is something going on that might stop me from doing just that, then I should damn well know about it! Don't you think?”
“Yes, sir,” Liam answered timidly, shivering.
“Then out with it!”
“The fix is in. We have an arrangement with Fitzpatrick's fighter, Kip O'Connor. O'Connor is going to go down in the sixth round.”
Farrell smiled. There was an opportunity here. A good opportunity to make some money on the side.
DAY FOUR
The Star of Erin was crowded as it was most Saturday nights. Four musicians took up a position in the corner. One had an accordion, which was pumping like a bellows. Another had a fiddle, which he played from the hip, his bow setting the strings alight. The other two musicians had acoustic guitars. Jigs and reels were the order of the night, and the band played a selection with fire and vigor. The crowd enjoyed the entertainment, singing, dancing and laughing. Except for Gladstone Farrell and Danny Clancy, who were there on business.
“So which one are you fighting?” Farrell asked.
“That's him. Kip O'Connor,” Danny said, pointing out a large man standing at the bar, with one of his huge hands wrapped around a glass of beer.
