A Bright Tomorrow (24 page)

“You hear that, Owen?” Nick insisted. “Come on to New York. I'll be your manager and Jack here can train you.”

Owen shook his head, and Nick set about to persuade him. The talk went on for a long time, and finally Amos said, “Nick, that's enough. You had your chance. Now it's up to Owen.”

Nick saw that he was finished and said no more. They left at midnight, and Nick's last words were, “Now, Kid, the offer's still good. If you change your mind, come right to New York. It'll be the smartest thing you ever did!”

Owen thought no more of it and laughed as he told Allie and Joey about the offer.

But the laughing stopped three weeks later.

When Colonel Fletcher didn't show up for breakfast or lunch one day, one of the hands knocked on the door of his room. When he got no answer, he looked inside and found the colonel lying beside his bed—cold and dead.

The entire company grieved, for Colonel Fletcher had been fair and just to all of them. But it was soon discovered that he had been fighting a lost cause, for the show was in such debt there was no way to continue.

A week after the colonel's death, the show was dismantled for the last time, the equipment sold to pay off debts, and the crew scattered.

That afternoon, Owen came looking for Allie and Joey and found them watching the last of the rides being taken down. Owen had been quiet, saying nothing to anyone, except the people he'd worked with. His farewell to Cecily had been easier than he'd expected. She had cocked her head, regarded him through narrowed eyes, then said lightly, “It's been fun, Owen…but I guess we both knew it wasn't forever, didn't we? Look me up if you ever get to Chicago.”

Owen could tell that Allie and Joey were both frightened. “Guess it's back to being tramps for Allie and me,” Joey said.

“Yes, Owen,” Allie added soberly. “It's scary—not having any place to go.”

“Everything changes, I guess, but you've got a place…if you want it,” Owen assured her. “I'm going to take Nick Castellano up on his offer to be a fighter. And I want you two to come with me to New York.”

Hope leapt into Allie's eyes, and Joey's expression showed instant relief. Owen knew he'd made the right decision, but warned them, “It's going to be beans and bread, maybe for a long time. I probably can't do it at all. But we'll make out, the three of us.” He looked down at the two. “Will you go with me?”

“Yes, Owen!” they both said at once.

Owen grabbed them around the shoulders and laughed out loud. “That's what I wanted to hear! Now, look out, New York…here we come!”

Allie found her eyes filling with tears and she dashed them away, glad of the feel of Owen's strong right arm around her shoulders. “Owen, can I keep my costume?”

“Why not? If I get knocked silly, you can put it on and parachute off the tallest building in New York…and I'll catch you when you land!” Owen laughed and gave them both a final squeeze. Then, arm-in-arm, the three of them walked away from the remains of Fletcher's show.

M
adison Square Garden was packed, but the big tanned man in the expensive tweed jacket shouldered his way through the crowd, leading an attractive young woman and a wide-eyed boy to their seats on the front row. One tough-looking individual, who had been pushed to the side, turned and gave the newcomer a hard look. “Who's he think he is? I gotta good mind to teach him some manners!”

His companion grinned. “Go right ahead, Kelly. That's Owen Stuart, the heavyweight boxer. Go on…you've had a full life…give him a lesson in manners!”

Owen didn't hear the comment and would not have heeded if he had. After a year in the ring and more success than he'd ever dreamed, he had learned to ignore such comments. Jack McVicker had taught him that much, soon after he had come to New York.
Never pay any mind to the crowd, Owen
…
no matter if they're cheerin' or booin'. The man they cheer tonight is the chap they'll be heavin' rotten eggs at tomorrow!

“Looks like we're just in time, Joey,” Owen said as the three settled down. “I only hope Buffalo Bill doesn't miss his target and shoot one of us instead.”

Joey shot a disdainful glance at Owen. “He don't
never
miss, Owen…not Bill!”

At that moment the music swelled, and a blinding flash from the overhead lights mounted over the grandstand spilled over the sign—BUFFALO BILL'S WILD WEST SHOW. From out of the shadows came a beautiful water-smooth silver stallion, bearing a man with a snow-white mustache and goatee. He circled the arena, then swept off his hat in a salute to the spectators as the stallion reared and pawed at the air. The crowd went wild, and as one of the hands began throwing blue glass balls into the air and the old man began to shatter them with his Winchester, Joey was on his feet, screaming until his face was red.

“I wish I could get that excited about something, don't you, Allie?” Owen asked, touching his shoulder to hers. When she looked up at him and smiled, he shrugged. “Guess I'm getting old. Sure is fine to see Joey having so much fun, though.”

“He'll never forget this day, Owen. It'll be a memory picture for him to keep.”

The balls popped, and soon the earth was covered with fine twinkling powder, and a pewter-colored fog filled the arena. Then a panorama of the Old West unfolded, as the old man, followed by Indians, bronc riders, clowns, and all the symbols of a bygone era, paraded by. Finally, Bill Cody took his place alone under the white lights in the center of the great coliseum, and the band ceased playing, the noisy crowd settling into respectful silence.

“This visit will be my last hail and farewell to you all,” the old Indian fighter said. His voice, for all the years he'd used it to fill many tents and auditoriums, was still a milk-smooth baritone. “Thirty years ago you gave me my first welcome. I am grateful for your long devotion to me. During that time many of my friends have long been gathered to the great, unknown arena of another life. There are only a few of us left. Last year, at the end of the performance, I merely said good night. This time it will be good-bye. To my little friends in the gallery and to the grown-ups who used to sit there, I thank you once again. God bless you all.”

For a moment the silence was so profound that Owen could hear the jingle of the bit as the great stallion reared, and then as Cody disappeared into the shadows, a great burst of applause shook the Garden.

After the show, the three of them filed out of the Garden, Joey still in a state of euphoria as Owen hailed a cab and gave the cabbie instructions. As they clattered along the streets, Allie was quiet, and when Joey finally ran down, Owen asked Allie what was bothering her.

“Oh, nothing,” Allie replied quickly. “Just tired, I guess.”

“You're making too many jumps. Why don't you take a vacation?”

Allie shook her head, not wanting to tell Owen that she and Joey were barely scraping by, even though she was working every day. When they'd first arrived in New York, Owen had gotten a small apartment for her and Joey and had supported them. Objecting to this arrangement, Allie had gone to the manager of Coney Island with a proposition—doing her balloon act at the amusement park. She had gotten the job, but the pay wasn't much. She had had to buy the old rig from Ivory Bill, and while he'd given her a good price, she had to send a payment every month. Then, too, she'd insisted on Joey's going to school, and that had proven to be more expensive than she'd expected.

As they moved through the traffic toward the heart of the city, Allie became aware that Owen was studying her.
He knows me pretty well
…
about some things,
she thought, and asked quickly, “When do you have another fight, Owen?”

“Saturday night, over in Newark.”

“Will you win?”

“Sure he will! Whatta you think, Allie, that he's gonna
lose?”
Joey asked indignantly. “Can I go with you, Owen…please?”

“Afraid not, Joey. It's no place for you.”

“If it's good enough for you, I guess it's good enough for me!”

Owen shook his head firmly. “You stay with your books and learn all you can about airplanes. If you're going to ask Mr. Wright for that job, you'll have to be pretty sharp.” He reached out and rubbed Joey's head playfully. “Don't want you to wind up an old pug like me.”

Allie listened to the two—Joey begging to go to the fight, Owen steadfastly refusing. The argument continued until the cab stopped in front of their apartment, and Joey got out.

“You work on that arithmetic, Joey,” Allie said. “I'll be home right after the jump.”

Joey waved in agreement, and Owen said to the cabbie, “Drive us to Stockman's Gym.” The cab lurched forward and, when they were almost there, Allie asked Owen if she could come to the fight.

“Oh, you wouldn't like it, Allie.” Owen shrugged. “It's not like the bouts in the carnival. Lots of cigar smoke and too much drinking.”

Allie thought about that. “I wish you could do something else to make a living.”

Owen turned to her quickly, on the defensive. “Why, I'm making a good living, Allie! I've won all nine of my fights…and I've been able to send money home for the last three months. As tight as money is, I figure I'm lucky.” He grew restive under her steady gaze, for he had been aware that she didn't like the idea of his boxing. “Look, it's like Nick and Jack McVicker both say—boxing is pretty bad for most of the guys in it. But I'm good enough to keep from getting chopped up, and that makes a difference. I'll stay with it awhile, and maybe even get a shot at the title someday. Even if I don't, I'll make a lot of money. Then I'll quit before I slow down or get hurt.”

“Amos doesn't like for you to fight,” Allie said. “And he's the smartest man I know. Neither does Lylah. You know they don't.”

Owen shook his head stubbornly. “They're just afraid I'll get hurt…but I won't. Nick will take care of me, see that I'm not overmatched. And Jack's teaching me all his tricks.” He reached over and squeezed Allie's hand. “Look, I don't want you worrying about me. I'm going to make enough money to send Joey to college…maybe even Harvard. Isn't that worth a few punches in my ugly face?”

Allie frowned. “It's not an ugly face. And I know you're doing it for us and for your family. But what about
you
, Owen? What do
you
want…for yourself, I mean?”

The question caught him off guard, and he shrugged it aside. “I'm okay.”

Allie looked down at his big hand on hers, then lifted her eyes to his. “Owen, I don't get scared anymore when I make a jump, but I never leave the balloon without thinking that something might go wrong. And what then? Is it all over?” She shook her head, a thoughtful expression in her dark eyes. “I don't think so. I think there's more than this little time we have down here.”

“Rose been preaching at you?” Owen asked. “Yeah, sure, she has. Amos tries to tell me all the time about how I ought to get religion.”

The cab stopped and Owen was glad, for it always made him nervous for some reason to talk about such things. “I'll come out and pick you up after the jump. We'll stop and have something to eat.”

“All right, Owen.”

“Take this lady to Coney Island,” Owen ordered, handing the driver some bills. “This ought to take care of it.” Stepping back, he waved at Allie, then as the cab rumbled off, he turned and entered the gym.

Instantly he was surrounded by the smell of resin and sweat, and his ears were assaulted by the rattle of speed bags and the thudding of gloves striking the big bags. Four regulation-sized rings were set up, and all of them were occupied with fighters going at each other hard. Almost everyone spoke to Owen, and he remembered how nervous he'd been the first day Nick and McVicker had brought him to Stockman's. He'd been convinced that the first man he took on in the ring would knock him cold, but he had quickly discovered he could hold his own with most of them.

The dressing room was almost empty, except for Dutch Longstreet, an older fighter who was getting into his ring garb. “Hello, Owen,” Dutch grunted. The man had a nose like a saddle and a voice box full of rocks. “Nick tell you he wants me to spar wi' youse?”

“No, I haven't seen him yet, Dutch.” Owen was troubled, for Dutch was getting on in years and had no business in the ring, even as a sparring partner. Owen had to control his feelings about the old fighter, for he believed Longstreet was just one step away from joining the ranks of zombie-eyed boxers who'd taken too many punches.

As he put on his trunks and robe, then headed back to do his bag work, Owen struggled with the fear that Nick was making a mistake.
I can't beat up on Dutch
…
Nick will just have to find somebody else.

Owen looked around, but there was no sign of Nick, so he spent the next hour punching bags. He was skipping rope when he saw Nick come in, accompanied by a short, muscular man with a swarthy complexion. The fellow looked vaguely familiar to Owen. They were trailed by two other men, both wearing black derbies and loose-fitting coats.

“Hey, Kid.” Nick grinned, coming up to slap Owen on the back. “How's it goin'?”

“All right, Nick.”

“Hey, want you to meet somebody.” Nick turned and nodded at the heavyset man, saying with a touch of pride, “This is Tony Rocco. Tony, this is my boy, Owen Stuart.”

Tony Rocco—he's the one the cops have been trying to nail,
Owen thought, and then remembered having seen his picture in the paper. “Hello, Mr. Rocco.”

Rocco was a Sicilian and had a strange pair of eyes—dark and half-hooded by heavy lids. “Nick tells me you're gonna be the champ, Stuart,” he said, speaking in a heavy accent.

Owen shrugged. “You know Nick, I guess. He thinks big.”

Rocco grinned and nodded at the two men who'd stood back a few feet. “You hear that? Nick's been givin' us the business!”

“Aw, Mr. Rocco, the kid's
modest!”
Nick protested. “He's got dynamite in his hands—dynamite!”

“Well, let's see a little of it,” Rocco ordered. He sat down in one of the wooden chairs under a ring, lit a cigar, and nodded. “Let's see some action.”

“Sure, Mr. Rocco! Come on, Owen, I'll put your gloves on. Dutch, you ready?”

As Nick laced up the gloves, Owen said quietly, “Nick, you set this up with poor old Dutch, didn't you? But I'm telling you now…I'm not going to play along.”

Nick jerked back, and his face was tense. “You
gotta
do it, Owen!” he said under his breath. “Rocco can help us! He's got connections…can get us a shot at the title!”

“I won't do it, Nick,” Owen said evenly.

Nick glared at him, then when he'd finished tying the gloves, called out, “Gotta be just a boxing match today, Mr. Rocco. Couldn't get a first-rate sparring partner on such short notice.”

“I didn't come to see no waltz, Castellano,” Rocco grunted. “Let's see what the kid's got.”

“I'll pay Dutch an extra hundred, Owen,” Nick hissed. “What's one more knockout to a bum like him?” He skipped out of the ring, rang the bell, and sat there, his face drawn with anxiety.

Dutch Longstreet always gave all he had. He had no defense at all, never had had any, as his battered face bore witness. His success in the ring had come from taking all his opponents could throw and counting on a lucky punch to put them away.

He came roaring at Owen, who simply parried the windmill blows and made no attempt to do more than send a few punches that did no damage. He heard Nick calling out, “See that footwork? Light as a feather, ain't he?”

But when the bell sounded, Rocco was decidedly impatient. “Okay, so he can dance, Nick. Now let's see him
hit!”

But Owen steadfastly refused to slaughter the old fighter and, at the end of the second round, Rocco got up and marched down to say to Nick, “What is this? You got me down here to see this kid do the two-step?”

Nick thought fast. Looking across the room, he spotted Sailor Lyons battering away at a hapless sparring partner and got an inspiration. Lyons was not a contender, for he was too slow for top-flight competition, but he was as tough as any fighter in the country. “Mr. Rocco, my boy don't do good with sorry competition. But what if he puts Sailor Lyons down for the count?”

Rocco's eyes glinted with interest. “Ain't been done but once,” he said around his cigar. “I might be interested if your boy can do that.”

Nick had to work fast, so he rushed over and interrupted Lyons. “Tony Rocco wants to see you in action, Sailor. I'll pay you a hundred to go three rounds with my fighter.”