“From this distance, it don’t matter, do it Mr. Baker?”
“You have a silver tongue, Mr. Figg. Figg.” Baker snapped his fingers. “Of course! The boxer. Pierce James Figg.”
Baker’s manner changed. He relaxed and seemed genuinely pleased to meet Figg. He clasped both of the boxer’s shoulders. “Twenty-five years ago in England, it was. I was a lad of ten and me dad took me to see you fight Ned Painter. Fifty-two rounds and you lost because of a broken arm and by God, man, you were winnin’. Winnin’!”
He turned to the crowd. “Keep on dancin’, folks. Meself and me friends here is talkin’ over old toimes.”
Baker said to the man and large black woman behind him. “Give yer greetin’s to Mr. Pierce James Figg, one of the best who ever put a foot in a prize ring.”
“Figg,” muttered the other thug. He blinked, flinched. “’Eard of ’im.”
“Heard of’im, now have ya?” Baker placed his face almost nose to nose with the thug. “’E’s the best, ‘e is, and you were fixin’ to die young by bracin’ the man.” The thug took one step backwards, licking his lips.
Baker said, “Mr. Figg, this here lady is Black Turtle. As you can see she is ample and black as a hangman’s heart. But I loves her, yes I do. She’s my lieutenant of sorts, keepin’ the girls in line and seein’ that peace and harmony reign over these here premises. Fights like a wounded tiger, she does, and she’s put a few men under the earth. No man in Five Points dares stand up to her unless, of course, he has provided in advance for his widow.”
Baker’s smile was easy, filled with white teeth. “I see, Mr. Figg, that you are in the company of that known man of letters, Mr. E. Poe and I say welcome to ye both. Yes sir, welcome to ye both.”
Poe said nothing.
Baker placed an arm around Figg’s shoulders. The boxer sniffed twice at the Irishman’s heavy cologne which smelled of cinnamon and gin.
“Figg me bucko, it is indeed an honor and a privilege to have a warrior like yourself in me place. Yes it is, sir. Your name is legend among those who follow ‘The Fancy.’ You have carved your name high atop the mountain crest of pugilism, sir. Saw you fight twice, twice, and a thrill it was. Bested Jem Ward, you did. Year was ‘26. And him goin’ on to become heavyweight champion of Britain. Good fighter he was, but I heard stories about him.”
Figg’s eyes were on the huge black woman who looked as though she wanted to kill him. The other thug was dragging away the man that Figg had knocked out. Figg said, “Ward had the skill, true enough. But he was a disgrace to the prize ring. He gambled too much. Bet on ‘isself to lose and he usually made sure he did.”
“You beat him fair and square, if I remember.”
“I did. He come into the ring that afternoon to kill me, so we had a go at it, ‘im and me.”
Baker produced another wide, sincere smile. “I was twelve then but by God, I did love ‘The Fancy.’ Lived for the prize ring, I did. The smell of it, the sounds, sights, the blood. All of it. Excitin’ world to a little fella. To a big fella too, let me tell ya. We have our boxers over here, some of ’em pretty good. But ahhh, those from me days as a snot-nosed little mick brat, they were the best I tell ya. Me dad never had a job long enough to tie his shoes but he always had a coin to bet on a prizefight. Tell me, has the game in England gone down as low as I hear?”
Figg nodded once. “It has. Gamblin’s taken its toll. Crooked fights, poisoned water to the fighters ‘twixt rounds, hooligans hired to break up a match if the wrong man’s winnin’. It’s gone wrong, true enough.”
Baker hung his head. “Sad. Very sad. Well now, how may I serve ye?”
Figg’s hands still did not leave his pockets. “Hamlet Sproul. Wants you should arrange a meetin’ with ‘im.”
“Hamlet Sproul, Hamlet Sproul.” Baker’s handsome and cross-eyed face turned thoughtful.
Poe, impatient with Baker’s hypocrisy, stood up. “Sproul has bragged about accompanying you and the Daybreak Boys on unscheduled visits to country homes.”
Baker’s eyes narrowed. Figg had seen that look before. The mick was measuring Poe’s neck for a blade; but then Baker smiled. “Yes, yes. Now it comes to me. Ham-a-let Sprou-well. I understand he is in the business of removals, of a sort.”
Behind him, Black Turtle snorted.
“Mortal remains and all that,” said Baker, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his gray silk waistcoat. “And what would you two citizens be wantin’ with such a man?”
Figg’s hoarse voice was even. The harp’s plink-plink and the shuffle of boots on sand were a musical counterpart to his words. “We will discuss that with Hamlet Sproul. We prefer you get word to him that Mr. Poe and Mr. Figg wants a face to face with ‘im as soon as possible. Tell ‘im it would be to ‘is advantage to do so. Tell ‘im it could very well save ‘is life.”
Baker nodded slowly, gravely. Cross eyes do indeed make him look funny, thought Figg. He’s slicker than egg white on a tile floor. Mr. Johnny the Gent would kick a nun in the head when she’s down, then charge her sixpence to help her off the floor.
“Save his life,” said Johnnie Bill Baker. “Now that ought to get his attention, eh Black Turtle me darlin’.”
She’d stepped away from him. A fight. Not too far away from where they stood. Without hesitating, Black Turtle waded in swinging her slung shot, scattering men and women before her as though they were driven by a strong wind.
Two men didn’t run. Sailors by the look of ’em, thought Figg, and they want to try her. They’re not the type to bow to a woman, so now she’s being put to the test.
Johnny Bill Baker smiled, gently nudging Figg with his elbow. “Behold, Mr. Figg. You are about to witness a remarkable performance which shall include the education of two gentlemen unacquainted with our ways.”
Now there was a space on the dance floor. The music trailed off and people watched. Two sailors, angered at being hit by the Negro woman, the both of them unfamiliar with her, were ready. They wanted to fight. So did Black Turtle.
“Nigger bitch,” grunted one. “Nigger bitch.” He charged her and Black Turtle kicked him in the knee with her booted foot, spinning him around and to the floor. The other sailor, smaller but as mean, was almost on her when she turned, hooking her right fist deep into his stomach. As he doubled up, she jammed her left thumb into his eye. He squealed, both hands quickly covering the eye.
Figg, who’d seen fighters in his time, was fascinated. She was the equal of any man and better than, most and she wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. The woman fought without heat, without passion, saying nothing and showing no expression and Figg hadn’t seen many with that kind of control or love of bloodsport inside ’em. Black Turtle was that rare one, a fighter empty of all feeling or compassion. Expect no mercy from her, for it was none you’d get.
Bending over, she came up with the stiletto from her boot top. Quick hands, thought Figg. Decisive. No hesitating with this one. The blade was against the temple of the sailor whose eye she’d just tried to put out. Then with one savage stroke, she brought the blade down, removing the ear. He screamed, spun around, spraying those near him with his blood.
Now the unlucky one on the floor had her attention. Black Turtle took her time walking over to him, which was just as well because he wasn’t going anywhere. Couldn’t stand. Figg watched the Negro woman raise her arm, then bring down the slung shot on the man, whipping him brutally, bouncing the egg-shaped piece of metal off his arms, thighs, head, stomach, hitting him again and again. Those watching laughed, pointed, howled, applauded. There was no mercy in Five Points. There were victors and victims and nothing in between.
Baker turned to Figg and Poe with his biggest grin of the night. Stands there like a proud parent, thought Figg, on the day his first born has finally learned to walk without daddy holding her up.
“Devoted to me, she is,” said Baker. “Ain’t nothin’ on two legs or four that can beat her.”