Macatee whistled again. He didn’t look up from his brushing. “Guess I should pay more attention to this Sorgenson.”
“That isn’t the point of the story.”
“Then what is?” He still didn’t look up. He seemed fascinated with getting the oxfords to shine perfectly.
“It’s what happened after the first round. Sorgenson ran back in the ring at the top of the second and really started hitting the other man. Knocked him down again. Knocked him down so hard that the referee got scared.”
“It can get scary in there.”
“The referee stopped the fight.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Maybe you don’t. He stopped the fight and a riot started.”
“A riot?”
“It was a hot day, just like today. There was a huge crowd, just like this one. One man was predicted to win, just as Victor is supposed to win today. But the crowd still wanted a match. They didn’t want to see it end too soon. They rioted. They took over the town and made it impossible for decent people to be anywhere near them for the night.”
For the first time Macatee stopped his brushing. He raised his very green eyes to Stoddard. “You don’t want to see this stopped today?”
“Not too soon.”
“What if the colored boy gets hurt real bad?”
“He knows what he’s getting into.”
Macatee studied Stoddard’s face for a long minute. “That story wasn’t true, was it, Mr. Stoddard? About Sorgenson?”
“It was meant to illustrate a point.”
“But it’s not true.”
“Not strictly speaking.”
“Meaning there was no Sorgenson?”
“No.”
“And no Omaha fight?”
“Not exactly.”
“And no riot?”
“No, no riot.”
Macatee had inhaled on his cigar. He was still studying Stoddard. “You’re worried I’m going to lose you money, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Macatee, I am. Especially now that I know your wife is carrying a placard.”
Macatee picked up the shoe brush once again. He returned to his polishing. “I’m not going to let him get killed.”
“Meaning what exactly, Mr. Macatee?”
“Meaning I’ll stop the fight before it goes too far.”
“Afraid of your wife?”
Macatee tapped his bald head. “Afraid of my conscience. I don’t want to be responsible for a man’s death. Even if he’s colored.”
“Just because a man gets hurt real bad, that doesn’t mean he’s going to die or anything like it.”
“I know you want a show, Mr. Stoddard, and I intend to help give you a show. Just not at the expense of a man’s life.”
“You’ll stop the fight, then?”
“When it’s appropriate. I’m going to keep watching the colored boy’s face close. When he looks like he’s had enough, I stop the fight.”
“The colored fellow wants to make some money. Remember, he’s getting paid for every round he can get through. He’d sure appreciate all the money he could earn.”
“It’s nice you’re so concerned for him,” Macatee said. “The colored fellow, I mean.”
“There’s no call to get sarcastic.”
“The mayor’s office hired me because they don’t want the responsibility of a death on their hands. If they hadn’t hired me, or someone else with my attitude, Mr. Stoddard, you wouldn’t have gotten your permit. A boxer dying may be all in a day’s work to you, but not to the mayor’s office. You have a fellow die in a ring like that and the state newspaper starts to paint you as an uncivilized place, and once that starts then businesses get real nervous about settling in your town, and pretty soon, before you know it, you’ve become a little fork in the road again and nothing more.”
“That crowd’s going to get awful mad if they don’t see a fight.”
“In Houston, I hear a crowd took its money back.”
Stoddard said, “I’m just asking you to be fair, Mr. Macatee.” “How about if his eyes roll back in his head? Is that a fair time to stop the fight, Mr. Stoddard?”
“Eyes rolling back don’t always mean anything.”
“How about if he starts strangling on his own blood from his mouth being cut up so bad inside? Is that a fair time to stop the fight, Mr. Stoddard?”
“He takes a little salt water, he’ll be fine.”
“Or how about if his arms start twitching because his nervous system has been damaged? Is that a fair time to stop the fight, Mr. Stoddard?”
“He could be just arm-tired.”
Macatee put the shoe brush down and dropped his leg from the chair. He stood up straight, touching a hand to a crick in his back. “I’m sure glad you’re not going to be referee, Mr. Stoddard. You know that?”
Stoddard slid the white envelope from his pocket. He dropped it on the chair. “I like to give referees a little bonus. Before the fight.”
Macatee stared down at the envelope. He leaned over and picked it up. He hefted it, estimating the number of bills inside. He handed it back unopened to Stoddard. “I don’t believe in bonuses, Mr. Stoddard. Especially before a fight.”
A minute later, after stuffing the envelope back inside his pocket, Stoddard was gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
He went over to one of the thirty different beer tents. He knew it was the last place he should go.
He had a sausage sandwich and two mugs of beer. He figured that the food would help offset any damage the beer would do.
He hated it out here. It was too hot, the sunlight almost a bleached white, and too dusty. The dust smudged his clothes and got in his eyes and even down his throat.
He was eager now to get it over with.
He would go in and not even hesitate. He would shoot Guild right in the leg. When Guild was trying to recover, he would grab the money and flee. He would vanish into the crowd. That was the reason Stoddard had hired him. He was no good as a gunnie, but he was very good at vanishing.
So that not even Victor Sovich could find him.
He stood in the beer tent, hearing the first of the preliminary bouts announced.
A few more hours, he figured. A few more goddamned hours.
* * *
“I’m sorry I got so pissy.”
“It’s fine, son. We all get pissy.”
“I know you’re only trying to help.”
“It isn’t my business, and I shouldn’t put my nose in it.”
“It’s just I wish you knew him better before you passed judgment on him.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s a wonderful man.” “You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you, Leo?”
“No, son, I’m not. Maybe he’s a wonderful man and it’s just my blind spot.”
“He took right over as soon as my mother left.”
Guild smiled at him. “He couldn’t ask for a better son. You know that?”
Just then the crowd shouted and whistled and began stomping their feet.
“The prelim must have started,” Stephen Stoddard said.
Guild picked up the rifle from where it stood next to the chair he was sitting in. He laid it across his lap. “Should be some more money coming our way pretty soon.”
“I really am sorry I got so pissy, Leo. I hope you understand.”
“Oh, I understand, son. I understand fine.”
Stephen Stoddard grinned. “Maybe when this is all over, the three of us will go out and have some drinks. Would you go along if we asked you?”
“Sure.”
Stephen Stoddard sat back and shook his head. “I’ve got a feeling you’re good for him, Leo. He seems to act a little better when you’re around.”
“That’s me,” Leo Guild laughed. “A good influence on everybody I meet.”
He rolled himself a smoke and checked out the rifle again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
They started rubbing Rooney with liniment half an hour before schedule. He was tightening up, and the bald, lanky man John T. Stoddard had appointed as Rooney’s trainer could see why.
Rooney was obviously afraid he was going to die, and probably with good reason. Rooney, from everything Simpson, the trainer, could see, was no longer much of a fighter.