He rushed back to the center of the ring, determined to get the fight over with and soon.
Sovich felt angiy. He liked it when he felt angry. Such a feeling always proved good for him and most unfortunate for his opponent. Especially if the opponent was colored.
At the top of the sixth, Sovich landed two smashing rights to Rooney’s stomach. Rooney dropped backward to the canvas, landing on his bottom.
The white crowd shouted, screamed, cheered, and stamped its feet. They wanted to see one hell of a lot more of this kind of action.
The temperature was now ninety-eight degrees.
The fight continued.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Reynolds watched the first five rounds and then began working his way toward the office, making stops at a beer tent, a beef tent, and a foul-smelling latrine. Sweating had kept him sober, kept him intent on the plan that now seemed not only ingenious but inevitable. Just outside the office door where Guild sat, Reynolds would collect papers and rags and set a fire. There being only one way out, Guild would have to come to the door to find out what was going on. Reynolds would then shoot him in the arm, sneak in during all the confusion, grab as much money as possible, and escape. He had spent most of the past half hour looking at a route for himself that ran adjacent to a railroad bed running east. A fast creek ran below a small forest of poplar and pines, and he could easily wade into the water and move unseen downstream.
Now he was getting almost excited about using a gun.
He found the rags and paper he needed in a storeroom in the back of the office building. He soaked these in kerosene that was also conveniently stored in the same room and then proceeded up to the front of the building.
* * *
“Your father’s going to have a nice payday, son.”
“It sure looks that way.”
“Though the fight isn’t going exactly as he planned, I bet.”
“No. I’d have thought Victor would have put Rooney away by now.”
“You can’t always tell with colored people.” The gate man, one of the first people John T. Stoddard had hired in this town, touched his hand to the brim of his Stetson in a sort of half salute and then moved down the fencing to help out a man who looked both confused and irritated, standing half drunk in the heat and the hard white sunlight.
Stephen Stoddard turned back to the fight. At this point, midway in the ninth round, Rooney seemed as startled as any of the spectators. Not only was Victor Sovich not putting the black man to the canvas, he was beginning to lose the fight. Rooney had just delivered some slashing blows to the head and was now moving in with some heavy body punches.
The crowd did not know how to respond. It was as if a bishop had climbed into the ring and had begun singing dirty ditties.
It was very confusing. Rooney was supposed to be flat on his back at this point.
Stephen Stoddard wondered what Guild would make of all this. Guild usually had something interesting to say about nearly everything. Stephen decided to go tell him.
He wadded newspaper and rags into a single mass of flammable material and set it in front of the door.
He knelt next to it, taking a lucifer from his pocket as he did so. Calculating the direction the smoke would take, he pushed the material a little east of the door itself.
He struck the lucifer.
He sat back to wait for the smoke to start oozing beneath the door and for Guild to come out and see what was going on.
He had his gun drawn.
He was trembling so badly he had to hold his weapon steady with his other hand.
“What the hell you doing in there?” Victor’s trainer shouted following the end of the ninth round.
“Heat,” Sovich managed to say.
“Heat my ass. Your arms are dragging. You got to keep them up. You got to keep him from hitting you. That’s the problem, Victor. He keeps hitting you, and you’re not doing a goddamn thing about it.”
The bell rang for the next round.
His trainer watched Sovich rise ponderously to his feet. He wavered, then wobbled as he put one glove on the ropes and started to walk to the center of the ring.
What the hell was going on here?
Guild, still seated at the rolltop desk with his feet up, thought he smelled something peculiar. Then he decided it was nothing more than all the combined odors, good and bad, of this afternoon.
The rags did not bum properly. Reynolds watched in frustration and anger as the flame reached the kerosene only to have it sputter out before any useful amount of smoke could be generated.
He snatched up the rags and ran back down the stairs to the storeroom for more kerosene.
The knock startled Guild, who had just been on the verge of falling asleep. He had started dreaming about the little girl he’d killed and was grateful to be awakened.
With his.44 in hand, he moved to the door and said, “Yes. Who is it?”
“Me. Stephen.”
“I thought your old man didn’t want you in here.”
“You hear about the fight?”
Now that Guild listened, the crowd sounded almost surly. He wondered what was going on.
“Victor’s losing.”
“What?”
“Rooney seems to be getting stronger and Victor seems to be getting weaker.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Let me in, Leo. I brought some lemonade for both of us.”
Guild shook his head and opened the door. He kept his.44 ready.
Stephen Stoddard stood in the open doorway with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses.
“Figured you could use a break,” Stephen said. “Probably gets pretty boring in here.”
“I’m earning some decent money, kid. I don’t mind it.” Stephen set down the pitcher and the glasses. He said ironically, “You changing your mind about my father?”
“Long as he pays me, I don’t have any complaint.”
Stephen sat down, poured them lemonade, and sat back in a squeaking office chair. “If Victor loses, my dad may be ruined.”
“I’m sure he’s been ruined before. He’ll come back somehow.”
“Not at his age.” Stephen made a sour face. “There’s just no way Victor should be losing.”
“Maybe Rooney’s a better boxer than we gave him credit for.”
Stephen shook his head. “We watched him in three different towns, just to make sure he was the man we wanted. We figured he could give Victor a decent fight but he’d never win.” He shook his head again. “Now look.”
Guild sipped his lemonade and lighted a cigarette. He felt, as usual, pity for the kid and an inability to do anything about his pity. Maybe it would be for the best if the old man lost all his money. Maybe in doing so he’d have to cut the kid free.
Stephen said, “I told you about my mother.”
Guild nodded.
“What I didn’t tell you is that I hired this ex-Pinkerton to find her for me.”
“Why now? After all these years?”
Stephen shrugged. “I suppose it’s like a bad tooth, Leo. You never quit worrying about it.”
“So did this ex-Pinkerton find her?”
“Yes.”
“What’s she doing?”
“Living her new life. Pretty happily, from what the detective said.” He paused. Sorrow filled his eyes. “She’s got a lot of new kids.”
Guild sighed. “Makes you feel kind of bad, doesn’t it? Knowing she started a new family and forgot about you?”
“Yes. Makes me wonder if she ever thinks about me or Dad at all.”
“Maybe you should try to look her up sometime.”
“She wrote me a letter.”
“She did?”
“Yes.”
“What’d it say?”
“I haven’t read it yet.”
“Why not?”
“Scared to, I guess.”
“Probably be better if you’d read it, don’t you think?”
“Maybe that’s why I came back here.”
“Why?”
“So I could read it in front of you. Maybe you could help me with it. Afterward, I mean. If I get real bad or something.”