Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

Ed sighed. Running up hotel bills, trying to keep Freedom happy, was getting him down. Sir Charles poured Ed a brandy. ‘I have a meeting with two chaps who may be able to guide us. They made Dempsey — Jack Kearn and Tex Rickard.’

Ed’s jaw dropped, his eyes sparkled. Together, these two men had taken boxing into million-dollar gates, and promoted Dempsey into that league. Word was out that they were both millionaires. Rickard had been a cowboy, a small town marshal, a prospector and a honky-tonk proprietor, and the ballyhoo he created around the fights earned Rickard, Kearn and Dempsey the nickname of the ‘Golden Triangle’. Ed rubbed his hands excitedly. If they could get those two on their side, they would be made.

Ed bounded into the hotel room. The women were out shopping, and Freedom had been left to babysit. He snapped, unpleasantly, ‘Who am I going to fight? Sir Charles arranged a bout for me yet? You tell him if I have to travel for a fight, I need time to train, to prepare. You tell him this waitin’s driving me spare, mun?’

Ed pulled up a chair, took out a crumpled piece of paper and began to read out the awesome list of fighters pouring into Chicago from all over the world — Knud Hansen of Denmark, Tom Heeney from New Zealand, Paolino of Spain, Luis Angel Firpo from Argentina — not counting all the American fighters who wanted a crack at the title. That list was even longer.

Ed scratched his head. Their only hope was to get Dempsey on their side and Dempsey’s men in their corner. With such backing they could bypass more than twenty contenders because Sharkey or Schmeling had already beaten them. For Freedom to work his way through the list would be madness. Ed shoved the paper under Freedom’s nose. ‘Look at ‘em, count the names … But ‘is Lordship’s gonna get some help, see the three main contenders.’

Freedom interrupted, already over-eager, ready to take all three on. ‘Who are they?’

‘Johnny Risco is one, then there’s the European titleholder, Max Schmeling, and, last but not least, the one they say will take the title, Jack Sharkey.’

Freedom paced the room. ‘Can’t Sir Charles get me a bout with one of them?’

Ed shook his head, becoming impatient with Freedom’s impatience. ‘That’s what I’m tryin’ ter tell yer. All these other boxers, they want a bout, but it can’t be arranged. The top three have fought most of these geezers, can’t I get it through yer brain? It’s like a knockout competition, any of these names wot’s listed ‘ere gets through all the prelims — then, then, they can try for the big three.’

Freedom slumped into a chair. ‘So what do I do? Sit here?’

‘No, son, you get down to that gym an’ work out like you never done before, ‘cause you gotta be ready at all times. We get a chance of a good bout we grab it wiv both ‘ands, an’ we pray ter God a bit of the Golden Triangle gold rubs off on us.’

Freedom blinked. Ed could almost see the wheels turning in his head. He repeated, ‘Golden Triangle’, then looked at Ed. It was dawning on him exactly who Rikard and Kearn were.

‘Yeah, my idols. An’ Sir Charles is pullin’ strings ter get ‘em on our side, so do as I say an’ we’ll get yer a fight.’

A week went by without any news, and the hotel bills were mounting. Freedom was becoming restless, he had nothing but aggravation at the gym, where they referred to him as ‘the black’, and he had almost got into a street brawl. A car passed him and Evelyne as they strolled arm-in-arm, and the occupants had shouted ‘white trash’ at her. He had chased the car in hapless fury.

He felt caged in the hotel, and Ed worried himself sick. He recognized the signs and knew that Freedom needed a bout soon. He also needed a change of scenery.

At long last there was progress. Sir Charles received a cable from Tex Rickard, cordially inviting them to visit him at his villa in Miami. Freda, Evelyne, and Edward, along with all their luggage and a very disgruntled, moody Freedom, left Chicago to take up residence in a small, rented villa in Miami. The villa was right on the ocean front, and Freedom began to relax a little. Sir Charles had instructed Ed to stand by, hire a car and wait. Ed was on tenterhooks, practising driving the car up and down the drive. He almost ran his future champion down as he came out of the villa swinging his towel at the motor. ‘How long, Ed? How long does he want us to wait here?’

Ed pulled on the handbrake. ‘That was a bloody silly thing to do. I could ‘ave run yer over.’

Freedom glowered. ‘You tell me how long mun? eh?’

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.