The Legacy (58 page)

Ed went red in the face, shouting back, ‘I dunno, do I? Why don’t you get on the beach, run, spend yer time gettin’ fit; just fer God’s sake stop asking me when-when when-when. It’ll be when Sir Charles says, that’s all I ruddy know.’

Freedom took off down the beach and Ed hit the steering wheel, shouting at himself now. ‘When you bastard, when? … when?’

Ed rushed into the villa bellowing for Freedom at the top of his voice. Freda was inspecting the fridge with delight, having never seen one before. ‘They’re on the beach, Ed … Ed, just look at this, it makes cubes of ice for the drinks.’

Ed was already rushing out on the beach waving his arms in the air. Evelyne and Edward were at the water’s edge, laughing at the little waves. Freedom was doing pressups.

‘Freedom … come on, we got to go an’ meet ‘em all now … Now, come on, lad … Here, wrap this round yer neck, don’t go gettin’ cold.’

Freedom took the towel and nicked it at Ed. ‘That’ll take some doin’, mun, it’s blazing hot.’ He went off at a fast run towards the villa, Ed following on his stubby little legs as quickly as he could. -

By the time Ed collapsed on the stairs, Freedom was already taking a shower. He could hear Freedom whistling, taking his time. Ed puffed his way up the stairs and paced up and down outside the bathroom until Freedom came out, stark naked. He was deeply tanned, the outline of his shorts showing lighter. Ed hovered at the bedroom door while Freedom dressed. It never ceased to amaze him how beautiful his lad was, like a statue, every muscle clearly defined.

‘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 earned 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.’