Delilah Marvelle - Forever a Lord

The sequence of knuckled fists quickened, cracking down onto and into Coleman’s shoulders and arms.

Vincent grunted in an effort to keep the blows steady.

Leveling his breathing, Coleman systematically counted those hard hits as they penetrated his muscle and bone, jarring him with pain. Between ragged, staggering breaths, Coleman counted every swing, until he found the pattern he’d been looking for. Five swings and a pause. Five swings and a pause. The man was a hall clock.

Five brutal punches pummeled Coleman’s shoulders again. Darting forward right at the pause, Coleman rammed a fist below that ear. The jarring of his own muscled arm against the side of his opponent’s head announced that he’d delivered the perfect hit: a blood vessel shot.

Vincent’s eyes bulged. He staggered, his swollen, blood-slathered hands jumping up to shield his head.

Gritting his teeth, Coleman jumped in and hit the now-exposed side until his knuckles were clenchingly numb. Belting out a riled roar he’d been holding, knowing Jane had stupidly lost her last breath to laudanum, he slammed a fist up and deep into Vincent’s lower ribs, trying to break them all in half.

Vincent wheeled back and collapsed onto the ground. His gnarled, swollen hands covered his side as he gasped. Bright red blood streamed from his nose and lips as he rocked in anguished panting silence.

“Back!” the umpire called, holding out a hand and ordering Coleman to get back to the chalked line.

Peddling toward the chalk line with both fists still up, Coleman waited, chest heaving and nostrils flaring. He could feel his right eye swelling shut as sweat dripped from his forehead to his nose and down the length of his chin. He swiped at it, smearing blood from his nose, and awaited the verdict.

The crowd counted down in unison.

When Iron Fist didn’t rise, he knew he’d won.

The umpire pointed at Coleman. “Here be the champion of this here quarter! The next and last quarter is set to begin with new opponents in fifteen minutes. So place your bets, gents!”

Coleman sometimes felt like he was cattle. No one ever even announced his name when he won. But that was street fighting for you. It was about money and blood. Nothing more.

In a blur of shouts and the waving of hats in the dust-ridden summer heat, Coleman dropped his arms, spit out the acrid blood that had gathered in his mouth and staggered over to the side fence where his earnings waited. Stanley, who always assisted Coleman in coordinating his street fights at fifty cents a piece, tsked, his unkempt whiskers shifting against his round face. “Why the hell do you keep doin’ these measly dollar street fights? You’re not gettin’ any younger, you know. In fact, most boxers your age are not only retired but dead.”

“I appreciate the confidence, Stanley.”

“You need to cease runnin’ out on the investors I bring and take on bigger fights over on Staten Island, is what. Because it’s breakin’ you. And it’s breakin’ me. I can’t make a livin’ at fifty cents a fight.”

“If you don’t like the money I bring, walk. Because I’m not about to take on an investor. Every one I’ve met is nothing more than a money-licking asshole looking to own me.” Coleman could feel the welts on his body swelling, stretching his pulsing skin. He refocused. “I want my ten. Now.”

Stanley grumbled something and held out the tin bucket. A tied sack, filled with coins, waited. “Ten. And I booked another street fight for you in two weeks. You can pay me then.”

“Good. I appreciate it.” Coleman reached into the bucket and yanked out the muslin sack. Shifting the weight of the coins in his swollen hand, he jogged back toward the fence.

He ducked beneath the planks and rejoined the crowd. Leaning toward Mrs. Walsh, he grabbed her bare hand and set the muslin sack into it. Goodbye, Jane. I’m sorry it ended like this for you. “Take all of it. Buy her the wreath and the flowers and a new gown and keep whatever is left for yourself and the boys.”

She glanced up. “You loved her. Didn’t you?”

Coleman said nothing. He didn’t want to lie to her. Because he’d never loved Jane. He’d learned to help women like Jane get out of stupid situations, yes, and enjoyed having sex with said women he got out of stupid situations, yes, but love? He’d never known it or felt it. Nor did he want to. Love was a messy business that not only fucked with a man’s head, but made a man do things he shouldn’t.

Mrs. Walsh grabbed hold of him and yanked him close. “Come to the funeral.”

He flinched against the touch that seared his bruised body. Unlatching her arms, he stepped back and shook his head. “I really don’t want to see her in a casket.”

“I understand.” She patted the small sack of coins. “May God bless.” She nodded and moved into the crowd.

The Walsh boys lowered their gazes and disappeared after their mother, one by one.

Coleman blankly stared after them, knowing it would be the last time he’d ever see them now that Jane was gone.

Matthew rounded him and held out his linen shirt. “I’ve known you for eight years, Coleman. Eight. Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were married?”

Coleman grabbed the shirt and pulled the cool linen over his sweaty, blood-ridden body, wincing against the movements. “Because it wasn’t much of a marriage. It was more like me helping a girl out of a situation and keeping her legally out of other people’s hands.”

Matthew held out the rest of his clothing, which Coleman also grabbed and put on. “I’m still sorry to hear she passed.”

Coleman shrugged. “It was only a matter of time. She was overly wild and consumed laudanum and whiskey like water.” He perused the trash-strewn ground. Finding the advertisement he’d earlier tossed, he swiped up the balled newspaper and shoved it into his pocket. For later.

Three hefty men, including a tall, well-muscled negro in a frayed linen shirt and wool trousers, suddenly pressed in on him and Matthew.

Coleman’s brows went up, realizing it was Smock, Andrews and Kerner—members of their group, the Forty Thieves. “You missed the fight.” Coleman thumbed toward the milling fence and smirked. “Although Vincent’s blood is still on the ground. Feel free to look around.”

Smock swiped a hand across his black, unshaven face. “We’re not here for the fight.”

Everyone grew quiet.

Oh, no.

Matthew quickly leaned in. “Jesus. Is someone dead?”

Andrews scrubbed his oily head with a dirt-crusted hand. “Nah. But it ain’t good, either.”

Kerner’s bearded face remained stoic.

Coleman stared them down and bit out, “Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on? Or are we going to stand here like bricks and play charades?”

Kerner’s bushy brows rose to his shaggy hairline. “Apparently, two girls went missing from the local orphanage. There’s been grumblings in the ward as to what happened. We’re talking prostitution. Sister Catherine called on me this morning and is terrified knowing the rumors are true. These missing girls are barely eight.”

Coleman hissed out a breath. The amount of sick bastards in this world taking advantage of children made him want to break rib cages all day long. He was damn well glad he wasn’t the only one putting up fists. The sole reason he and Matthew had created the Forty Thieves was to clean up the rancid aspects of the slums they all lived in. The trouble was, there was too much to clean and very little money to clean it with. “I say we get the boys together and decide who can resolve this mess best. Milton? When and where?”

Matthew pointed at Coleman. “Anthony Street. In three hours. The usual place. Someone has to know something. Maybe we can buy a few tongues. Though God knows with what. Informants these days only want money. Kerner, Smock, Andrews, come with me. We need to get our hands on twenty dollars. Coleman? Clean yourself up. Your face and nose need tending.” Matthew rounded into the crowd with the boys following suit and disappeared.