‘What yer doin’ now? We can’t keep these fellas waitin’. Gawd almighty, you do nothin’ but moan about wantin’ a fight, now when we got to go an’ talk about it, what you doin’?’ ‘
Freedom beamed at him as he pulled on a shirt. Ed heard Freda below mixing drinks in a newfangled machine. ‘Gawd love us, git yer pants on … Freda? Don’t you go cookin’ nothin’, we’re on our way out, at least, we will be when this bloody lad gets his gear on. Now, come on …’
At long last they were on their way.
Ed parked the rented car outside the ranch-style house, and he and Freedom were led on to a shaded patio by Kearn himself. There, already seated with Sir Charles and waiting to meet them, was the second point of the Golden Triangle, Tex Rickard. He rose to his feet and they were introduced. He was wearing a cowboy hat, tooled leather boots and a large silver and turquoise buckle on his belt. He was a big, expansive man, and a man who got immediately on to familiar terms. Ed loved him. Sir Charles was looking cool and suave in a white linen suit.
The men were drinking beer and their cigar smoke drifted up into the clear, bright sky. Ed and Tex Rickard were talking nineteen to the dozen, as they had been all afternoon, of boxers, of fights. Rickard gave a blow-by-blow account of the Tunney-Dempsey fight, the bout known as the ‘fight of the long count’. The new rule was that when a boxer was knocked down, his opponent had to go straight to a neutral corner. Only then could the count begin. If he didn’t move, the referee would not start the count.
‘Ed, ma boy, that count must have been well over sixteen, I was out of ma goddam mind! I screamed for Jack to get into the corner — he’d forgotten, see, in the heat of the moment. Jeez, I’m tellin’ ya, I wanted to get in the goddam ring myself … so of course, Tunney got a second wind, who wouldn’t after sixteen seconds?’
Ed turned to Freedom and jerked his thumb towards Rickard, telling him to pay close attention to what the man, the man, was saying. Freedom leaned forward and listened as the two men began to discuss the last Tunney fight, then relaxed again. He had seen the film, knew the fight punch by punch. Freedom was beside himself. There was Ed with Rickard, apparently going over every detail of every fight that had ever taken place in the USA, and on his other side Sir Charles and Kearn talking non-stop about aeroplanes.
The real reason they had all gathered at Kearn’s was to discuss a bout for Freedom, to make him a contender for the championship, but so far no one had said a word about it. In fact, they never brought the subject up at all.
Freedom was moody, his temper fraying. With a terrible grinding of gears they stopped at the villa, and as they climbed out of the car, Freedom began to question Ed. ‘So when do I fight, Ed, what went on? They going to help me get a bout or not?’
Ed puffed on a Cuban cigar, a gift from his new friend, Tex, and waved his hand majestically. ‘These things take time, son, got to be worked out, an’ Sir Charles is going ter have ter give them a percentage of the gate, see, so we don’t want ter rush fings. They want ter see you work out tomorrow at a friend’s place … Anyway, did I tell you what Tex told me about when he was gambling in Paris, France?’
‘I don’t give a bugger about his gambling, I want a fight and I want it soon, Ed.’
That night, Freedom felt Evelyne’s belly, and they both agreed it was going to be another boy. They discussed names, and Evelyne decided she would like to call him Alexander. Freedom muttered that it was a name for a woman, and she threw a pillow at him. He would have let her call the baby Freda if she’d wanted to.
The sun had tanned Evelyne’s pale skin and lightened her long red hair. He had never seen her so beautiful. The good life suited her, and he was determined it wouldn’t stop — not now, not ever.
He slipped from the bed and lifted the blind. The night was dark and the sea was lit by a perfect, brilliant moon. He clenched his hands, his frustration was building to-bursting point. He couldn’t sleep at night, and he spent all day waiting, always waiting.
At breakfast the following morning, Freedom had already been up for hours, running himself into exhaustion. He ate in silence, and the atmosphere grew tense. Ed was eating the most enormous platter of sausage and pancakes, and his paunch was growing as fast as Evelyne’s pregnancy.
‘Be patient, fings is goin’ just right.’
That was it. Freedom banged his fist on the table. ‘Sittin’ around eatin’, mun, you call that going just right? I came here to fight, so far I done nothin’ … maybe it’s not just Sir Charles out of his depth, mun, maybe you don’t know what you’re doin’ … Get me a fight, that’s all I want.’
As if on cue, a Western union boy rang their bell and handed over a telegram. Rickard had requested another meeting.
Ed and Freedom departed with the usual crashing of gears, Ed refusing to speak to Freedom until he apologized. Evelyne sighed, Freedom’s moods were getting to them all, apart from Freda, who spent most of her time with her nose in the fridge eating all the goodies she had discovered on their trips into town.
‘I’ll take Edward down to the beach.’
‘Freda, what if he loses? If he gets a bout and loses, we are all here, living in luxury — who’s paying for it?’
Freda sat down at the table with her raspberry ripple ice-cream. ‘Don’t talk that way. Of course he will win, don’t ever speak like that.’
But Evelyne couldn’t rid herself of her foreboding. She knew Freedom was getting dangerously impatient. Freda waved her spoon at Evelyne. ‘Maybe today they’ll know about a fight, and you must not let Freedom see you are worried, promise me … have some raspberry ripple.’
Evelyne shook her head, collected the bucket and spade and, with Edward pulling excitedly at her hand, went down to the beach.
Ed drove through the gates of the luxurious ranch-style villa. This time Freedom hardly gave a second glance, already bored by Ed’s non-stop description of all the Dempsey fights. Only when a servant led them into a gymnasium did he perk up. Everything was geared to boxing — a ring built in the centre of the vast, sprung floor. The servant showed them the dressing room, gesturing to Freedom to help himself, and then bowed out, leaving him to stare at the rows of gloves, robes and boots.
‘Go on, get a work out, I’ll take a stroll round the stables. I got a surprise for you, you wait. Go on, get dressed.’
Freedom was hammering hell out of a punchbag when the gym doors swung open. A tall, elegant man in a pale cream linen suit, his black hair slicked back, leaned on the doorframe. A large diamond ring glittered on his little finger.
‘Carry on, son, let’s have a look at you. Go on, hit that bag.’
Puzzled, Freedom blinked. Ed appeared behind the man and stared in adoration, near tears. As the man moved into the centre of the room, Freedom looked at him again and realized who he was. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and shirt with a silk tie, and a handkerchief placed just so in his breast pocket, but no amount of fancy tailoring could hide his muscular body. This was none other than Dempsey himself.
Dempsey’s polished shoes made no sound on the pine floor. ‘How ya doin’, Freedom, glad to meet you.’
The hand was like a rock … so this was the ‘Manassa Mauler’, the iron man. Ed clutched Dempsey’s hand, and for one awful moment it looked as if he were going to kiss it. Dempsey began to peel off his jacket, his perfect white teeth gleaming. ‘Let’s go to it, son, I need a work out.’
It took quite a lot of persuasion for Dempsey to get Freedom into the sauna, as Freedom had never been in one and didn’t like it at all.
‘Sweats out all the impurities, all the rage over here, they’ll get to England in about twenty years. America’s the place, this is the land, here, I love this goddam country.’
He poured pine essence on to the bed of hot coals and sat on one of the benches. His body was flabby, but still in better shape than most men of his age. He thumped his belly and roared his deep, bellowing laugh.
‘This is the good life, I earned it, I earn
ed it and now I’m living, really living … hey, you married?’
They both wore short white towels wrapped around their hips, and Dempsey seemed very proud of his ‘manhood’. He snorted when Freedom told him he was married, and said marriage was the worst contract he had ever got himself into.
‘An’ that toff with the enlarged eyeball, your — what?’
Freedom smiled at his reference to Sir Charles, and said that he was his so-called promoter.
‘They’ll have him for dinner, you stayin’ ta eat? Good, I’ll make us a barbecue, one you won’t forget, an’ we’ll have something wet to go with it.’
He was referring to the prohibition order, and when they were dressed they made their way to the patio for the barbecue, passing a very well-stocked bar. Prohibition hadn’t, it appeared, affected the ex-world champion.
Ed was grinning like the Cheshire cat, his tete-a-tete with Tex Rickard had obviously lasted all afternoon. Dempsey made no reference to Freedom’s fights, but they had worked out hard together in the afternoon and Freedom had been aware of the close scrutiny he had been under.
Dempsey heated the coals on the open grill, and some Mexican servants brought chops, steaks and sausages, already prepared for cooking.
‘You ever eaten an American hamburger, Freedom? Hey, what kind of a hell of a name is that, Freedom?’
Tex poured drinks and said that it was a name that would look good in lights, on posters, and then Freedom knew that something must have been settled.
The whisky hit the back of the throat like a fireball, and Ed whisded. Dempsey grinned and said it was the best around these parts, he had the best contacts. The men lit cigars and watched as the food went on to the open grill, while Dempsey, in his shirtsleeves and with his cigar stuck in his mouth, wielded the fork like a fencer, jabbing and inspecting the meat. A table was set on the patio, and soon they were joined by Sir Charles and Jack Kearn. They were greeted with a bellow from Dempsey, who wanted to know where the hell they had been. Kearn poured himself a generous measure of whisky and, gesturing to Sir Charles, said that he was going to make a first-class pilot.
Suddenly there was a silence, the sort of silence they say means an angel is passing over, and Freedom knew instantly that something had definitely been decided. Rickard looked at him. ‘Right, son, if all goes to plan — as you know, there are the big three, Risco, Schmeling and Sharkey. Right now you can’t get a bout with any one of ‘em, but we want you to start ploughing your way through a few smaller bouts — get some good publicity, get your name known. Then, if all goes well … it’s Risco first, then the German, then the main contender, Sharkey. We’ve seen all their managers and it will be up to you to show us your worth … We want the Sharkey fight in Miami, that way Jack don’t have to travel too far.’ They roared with laughter, and more drinks were served. Freedom was beside himself. If they’d asked him to fight anyone then and there he would have been up on his feet.
Freedom was never to discover exactly what the financial arrangements were, he left that to Sir Charles. They were very relaxed, the conversation centred entirely on boxing, and Freedom ate like a horse while Dempsey held the floor. He was a great raconteur and made everyone roar with laughter at the stories of his days on the ‘tank town’ circuits. The subject of the forthcoming bout did not arise again and Freedom had no idea when it was to take place, but he was sure Ed would tell him everything on the journey home. In the meantime he enjoyed himself for what seemed the first time in months.
The following morning, Freedom and Ed received a visit from Sir Charles. He drove up to their villa in a car almost as long as the villa itself. The three men went into the front room and closed the door.
Ed was surprised to see Sir Charles was as hung over as himself and Freedom. His face was a greenish colour and he accepted black coffee gratefully. ‘Right, now then, it’s not quite as easy as those fellas made it out to be. They want you accepted as a real contender, so I have drawn up the eliminator bouts. If you come through, as I am sure you will, then they’ll come in with their promotion for the last three — Risco first.’
Ed was sweating. He mopped his brow. ‘Who does he take on first, sir, and where?’
Sir Charles paused a moment, then coughed. ‘It’s the Dane, Knud Hansen.’
Ed was tense, gripping his cup and saucer to stop them rattling. ‘Next, who’s after the Dane?’
‘Monty Munn … first fight takes place in Cleveland, at die St Nicholas ring.’
‘Where’s Cleveland, local is it?’
‘No, Ed, it’s in Ohio, so get packing and be prepared to leave first thing in the morning.’
Freedom was beaming from ear to ear as Ed showed Sir Charles out.
‘I don’t know what you’re so bleedin’ ‘appy about, you seen the size of this ruddy Dane? He’s over six feet four, a fuckin’ Viking.’
Freedom laughed and stood up, raising his arms. ‘So am I, so what?’
‘His bleedin’ Lordship didn’t mention yer might ‘ave ter take on the friggin’ French feller. Just two fights. Well, don’t fink they’re easy, you’re up against it, and wiwout much time in between bouts if yer do win …’
Freedom rumpled Ed’s thin, frazzled hair. ‘That’s what I like about you, mun, give me confidence, encouragement…’
Ed grinned and punched Freedom good-naturedly on the arm. ‘You’ll take ‘em easy, lad, just don’t want yer finkin’ yer don’t ‘ave ter train.’
Freedom went into the kitchen to give Evelyne and Freda the news. Left alone, Ed’s good humour dropped like a stone, and he muttered to himself, ‘Christ almighty, ‘e’s got ‘is ‘ands full.’
The following morning they were packed and ready. Ed wouldn’t even hear of Freda or Evelyne accompanying them. ‘You’ll both be there for the championship fight, but in the meantime me an’ my lad’s got our work cut out. We don’t want you two slowin’ us down.’
Evelyne was relieved. The thought of travelling all over America with little Edward, and pregnant at the same time, was daunting. Freedom was happy, confident, and couldn’t wait to get started. But when they had gone the villa felt empty without them, peaceful.
Freda carried two milk shakes on to the patio. ‘Banana, try it — have you ever had a banana?’
Evelyne shook her head and sipped the milky yellow drink, then smiled approval. Edward clambered on to her knee and grabbed the drink with both hands while Evelyne struggled to prevent him spilling it all over the table. At the same time she asked Freda what she thought about the forthcoming fights.
‘Oh, darlink, first it’s just a little one, with Knoot somebody, then a few more to get the Americans familiar with Freedom’s name. You don’t worry, Ed’s not worried, and he knows … look, Edward — see, this is a straw, and you suck up your drink like so …’
She demonstrated sucking through the straw. Edward couldn’t quite get the hang of it and blew instead. Freda turned to Evelyne with banana milk shake dripping down her face. She laughed, saying it was for her sunburn.
Ed and Freedom travelled to Ohio by train, while Sir Charles flew there in a private plane owned by Jack Kearn. He was even allowed to take over the controls, and began to think about acquiring one himself.
The gate for Freedom’s fight with Knud Hansen was only fair, about four hundred people. Ed was confident Freedom could take the Dane with ease; the man punched wildly, and used an open-armed swing. He was enormous, weighing in eight pounds heavier than Freedom.
The crowd cheered them both, and as the gong went for round one their cheers turned to loud boos. Freedom was moving around, trying to assess his man, and had hardly thrown a single punch when he caught a wild right and was knocked ‘clean out, to the fury of the crowd.
This was Freedom’s first defeat, and he was totally demoralized and dejected, stunned at his own stupidity. However, with Ed always close by and confident that it was a fluke, they arranged a second bout fast. Although the press had been there, the fight hardly ca
used a ripple in the papers as they were all carrying banner headlines about a brutal killing, a blood bath that had taken place in Chicago.
The headlines ran, ‘St Valentine’s Day Massacre’. Only a small article, a single paragraph in the sporting section, reported the English contender, Britain’s only hope for the Heavyweight Championship, had lost. ‘Stubbs KO’d Round One by the Great Dane.’
Evelyne’s heart stopped when the rotund figure of Freda charged down the beach, kicking up sand behind her. Evelyne jumped to her feet, panic-stricken. ‘What is it? Freedom? Is he all right?’
‘Ohhhh, oh, oh … it was on the radio, you won’t believe it, but … they were murdered, all of them gunned down.’
Freda saw the horror in Evelyne’s face and quickly gasped out the Al Capone story. Evelyne flopped back on the hot sand. ‘Freda … oh, Freda, I thought something terrible had happened.’ She sat up suddenly, stared at Freda. ‘Al Capone? No, are you sure? It couldn’t be right, he was so nice! He wouldn’t do anything so terrible as shooting people, you must have misheard it, Al Capone?’
Freda was adamant. It had been on the radio, so it had to be true. Evelyne let a handful of sand trickle through her fingers. ‘Was there anything about the fight?’
Freda shook her head, then screamed as Edward brought his spade crashing down on her head. Evelyne jumped up and grabbed him, taking the spade from his chubby fist. ‘That was naughty, you apologize this instant to Auntie Freda! Edward, I mean it, say you’re sorry … Edward!’
Edward pursed his lips and glowered.
‘Right back to the house you go, my lad, and no more sandcastles today.’
Edward screamed and kicked at the sand in fury, his eyes black with anger. Evelyne chased him in circles on the beach until she eventually caught hold of him and dragged him back to face Freda. He wriggled free, then hurled himself into Freda’s arms. He kissed her cheek, holding her face in his small hands. ‘Kiss it better, kiss you better.’
Freda wrapped him in her arms, laughing. ‘Oh, Eddie, you have lady-killer eyes, you have … It’s all right, Auntie Freda forgives you, and I’m sure Mama will let you build another castle … Evie?’
The Legacy l-1 Page 46
