Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) (2 page)

Braun had scaled the first section of the church wall easily. His supporters had reached deeper into their pockets and doubled their bets. And Weiser had been happy to take their money.

Braun had continued up and reached the tower. At first the hand- and footholds in the ancient moss had made his climb easy, as Weiser had known they would. Once more, the boys’ bets had been doubled.

All eyes had been on Braun as he reached the actual tower. Braun had paused and made a show of waving to his friends below. More bets had been offered and Weiser had taken them, but inwardly had felt the beginnings of doubt.

Braun had kept climbing, Weiser watching with growing concern. He had counted on the moss to give way. “If it doesn’t,” Weiser had worried, “I’ll lose more money than I actually have.”

As Braun neared the top. Weiser’s hands had grown clammy. That moss had to let go!

Confident in reaching his goal and winning his bet, Braun had turned toward the crowd in an arrogant gesture. He had been 400 feet above his audience as he raised his right arm high in a bold salute.

But this cocksure pose had been his undoing. Braun’s full body weight on his left side had been too much for the moss to maintain its grip on the tower. It had pulled away, slowly at first, then gathering momentum.

Braun had clung to the tower for an agonizing moment, his silhouette clear against the growing light, before beginning to slide.

The tower’s small ledge where the roof met its base had slowed his fall for an instant, but not enough to check his descent. He had crashed to the ground and lain motionless on the cobblestones.

Braun’s friends had crowded around him, urging him to speak, but he could not. The fall had broken his back and he had died without opening his eyes.

In their shock, Braun’s friends had forgotten about Weiser, who had quietly gone home with his pockets full of their money and no regrets.

Four years after his wager with Braun, Weiser sat at Otto’s bar nursing a pint of lager and feeling sorry for himself. Although he enjoyed a profitable hobby wagering, it hadn’t satisfied his hunger for success. Moreover, his most recent project had just failed miserably. It was beginning to look as if he was never going to achieve the splendid social and financial life he desired.

In Weiser’s unsophisticated eyes, membership in Nagold’s prestigious Boxing Club was a symbol of social success. The club was a stately stone mansion with fireplaces in each room, overstuffed leather chairs, and white-jacketed waiters. The men lounging in those overstuffed chairs were the city’s elite.

The chairman of the Club’s board, Karl Schultz, had a son, and Weiser thought becoming Karl Jr.’s friend would get him into the club. Karl Jr. was not a popular person and was ecstatic to have Weiser’s attention, but his friendship did not get Weiser an invitation to join the club.

Weiser’s next ploy had been to make Karl Jr. a celebrity, and what could be easier than helping him win a boxing contest?

Regrettably, Weiser didn’t know much about boxing. He groaned inwardly as he remembered Schultz’s match earlier this afternoon. In his mind’s eye, he saw Schultz climb between the ropes and step into the ring, looking every inch a fighter in his white tights, narrow black sash knotted at the back, and high-top leather boots. Schultz had looked so good, Weiser had wagered heavily on Schultz, and it was money he didn’t actually have.

But clothes don’t make a man, nor does a correct costume make a boy a fighter. After a few initial jabs, Karl Jr.’s opponent had grabbed hold of his blond curls, pummeled his face unmercifully, and thrown him ingloriously to the mat. Schultz had been down for the count, and Weiser had been left scrambling to pay off his bets.

Weiser’s soul-searching was put aside when Jacob Waltz burst into Otto’s, hung his workman’s wool cap on a peg, and took a seat at the bar. Otto drew a lager and greeted him with a grin, “I hear you surprised the Gypsy fight crowd last night.”

Waltz smiled modestly and said, “You heard about it already?”

“Sure I did,” Otto replied, leaning his elbows on the bar. “This is a pretty small town.”

Waltz lifted his beer to his mouth, drank heartily, wiped the foam from his whiskers, and said, “We was pretty even at first, but the other guy was out of shape. All I had to do was keep my guard up until he got tired of throwing punches.”

Otto’s grin widened as he said, “The way I heard it, you laid him out cold.”

The corners of Waltz’s mouth twitched and his greenish-brown hazel eyes crinkled as he said, “Well, I did wallop him pretty good.”

“Sounds like Raoul’s making a real fighter out of you,” Otto observed.

“I guess he is,” Waltz agreed, grinning from ear to ear. “Drinks are on me tonight.”

Weiser heard the sound of opportunity knocking: If this Raoul could make an obvious nobody like Waltz into a winning fighter, he ought to be able to turn a privileged man like Schultz into an even better one. Weiser finished his drink, slapped his stylish grey fedora on his upper-class head, and hurried to the Gypsy camp to find Raoul and set up an arrangement for revenge.

The following night, Weiser took Schultz to the Gypsy camp. Schultz had never seen anything like this kind of fighting. The sheer excitement captured him at once. Awestruck, he didn’t notice the knowing look Raoul exchanged with Weiser as he approached and greeted them, “Welcome to my camp, gentlemen.”

Turning his dark gaze on Schultz, Raoul said, “You’re a big fella. How’d you like to go a round with one of my boys?”

Remembering his ignominious defeat at the boxing club, Schultz blushed and said, “I don’t think so, sir.”

Raoul ignored his refusal and beckoned to a Gypsy boy who was standing near the ring. This boy was about Schultz’s height, but much thinner.

The boy came quickly, walking with the easy stride of a natural athlete, and stood obediently beside Raoul.

“This is my son, Gino,” Raoul said, putting his swarthy hand on the boy’s shoulder.

As if on cue, gypsies surrounded them, laughing and clapping their hands.

Schultz still hesitated, but Raoul took his arm and helped him into the ring, and Gino followed. After a few minutes of circling and making little jabs at each other, Gino let Schultz land a solid punch — at least solid enough that he could fake a fall to the mat.

Schultz’s round face shone with happiness as Raoul helped him out of the ring, patted his shoulder, and said, “You’re a natural boxer if I ever saw one. With a few lessons from me, you could go back to the Boxing Club with your head high.”

Schultz reddened as he said, “You know about that?”

Raoul flashed his gold tooth and replied, “Of course I do. And I also know you will be able to put the man who defeated you on the mat, after a few lessons with me.”

Weiser could see where this was going and didn’t intend to let Raoul cut him out of his share. He put his arm on Schultz’s shoulder and said, “Let’s go, champ. We can talk about the future tomorrow.”

The next afternoon, Weiser returned to the Gypsy camp to make a deal with Raoul. He found the Gypsy seated at a table beside his caravan, studying a spread of greasy tarot cards.

“Can you tell my fortune?” Weiser asked with a sly smile.

“Of course,” Raoul replied without looking up. He moved three cards to the center of his table and peered at them intently.

“Well, what do you see?” Weiser said.

“I see the Fool, the Magician, and the Devil in your future,” Raoul said, still not looking up.

Weiser laughed, “But do you see wealth?”

Raoul looked up then, and met Weiser’s eyes as he swept the cards into a stack. His gold tooth gleamed as he said, “I don’t need a crystal ball to see that you are after money. But so am I. If we work together, you an’ I, we could undoubtedly fill our pockets with ease.”

Weiser pulled up a chair and said, “Can you make my friend Schultz into a Boxing Club champion?”

“Of course I can,” Raoul replied with a contemptuous smile, “even though he doesn’t have the grit of a real fighter.” Raoul drew himself erect and said proudly, “With enough support from his father’s purse, I — Raoul, King of Gypsies and renowned coach of fighters — can teach even pitiful Schultz to beat those amateurs.”

“Schultz’s father will support him all the way,” Weiser said.

Raoul fixed his shrewd gaze on Weiser and went on, “But I think you, Mr. Weiser, want more than that.”

Weiser was silent, speculating on how much to confide in this Gypsy.

Raoul persisted, “What are you really after?”

Deciding to trust the Gypsy, Weiser said, “Money an’ a place in society that I can’t rise to in Germany. I want enough money to go to America.”

“I can get you that money, if you’re willing to invest six months getting it,” Raoul said.

“I can do that,” Weiser said. “What’s your plan?”

Raoul bent his head over the table an inch from Weiser’s forehead, and whispered, “I will teach Schultz enough to make him club champion. When he has achieved that title, I have a ringer who can defeat him. My man will be content with taking home the prize money, while you an’ I will make a fortune betting against Shultz.”

“I like this idea,” Weiser said. “It may not get me all the way to America, but it sounds like a damn good start!” He started to stand, then paused as if in afterthought, and said, “Who’s your fighter?”

“You don’t know him,” Raoul replied in an equally offhand manner.

Weiser, who was always attentive to the details of his schemes, would not be put off. “I want to know who my money is riding on!”

“Don’t you trust me?” Raoul said, with a slight frown.

“As far as I can throw you,” Weiser said firmly. “No name, no deal.”

“All right, if you must know, my man is Jacob Waltz,” Raoul said.

Weiser sat back down, thought for a moment, and said, “Can you guarantee Waltz will beat Schultz?”

“I can guarantee it will be a slaughter.” Raoul replied, showing his gold-star grin. “But are you concerned that Schultz will get hurt?”

Weiser didn’t hesitate. “I don’t care who gets hurt, as long as I get my money.”

Schultz’s father knew a thing or two about the manly sport of boxing, and he also knew Raoul’s reputation as a trainer. Pleased as punch at his son’s interest, Herr Schultz reached into his wallet, pulled out a handful of bills, and sent his son off to become a man.

For his part, Schultz worked hard at his training and even ran five miles to Raoul’s training ring every day. Once there, he punched a sandbag until his fists ached, then went on to spar with the young Gypsies. As he improved, he began asking Jacob Waltz for tips and advice. Completely unaware of his teacher’s scheme, Waltz was more than happy to help Schultz. The two were fast becoming friends, until Raoul stepped in to keep Waltz from unknowingly tipping their hand.

The day finally came when Schultz hit one of the Gypsies hard enough to knock him out. It certainly wasn’t confirmation that Schultz was the greatest fighter in the world, but it showed he was good enough to beat the rest of the dilettantes at the club. And to convince Schultz he was a contender. Raoul put his arm around Schultz’s shoulder, smiled his gold-tooth smile, and said, “Good work, Schultz. You’re ready to go back to your Boxing Club.”

As Shultz neared the top of the club’s ladder, his betting odds changed and it was time for Weiser and Raoul to bring Jacob Waltz into their scheme. Weiser began by following Waltz to Otto’s and waiting until Waltz was seated before he sat down and ordered his own pint.

Waltz paid no attention to Weiser. He was worried about his mother, who had been bedridden for a month. She needed expensive medicine and he didn’t have enough money to pay for it.

Looking for a way to strike up a conversation, Weiser spotted a dish of salted nuts on the bar. He reached for the nuts and, as if it were accidental, brushed Waltz’s half-empty glass with his sleeve. The glass tipped over and beer poured out, soaking Waltz’s trousers.

Startled out of his normal politeness, Waltz jumped to his feet and burst out, “You idiot!”

Weiser grabbed his napkin to dab at the spill, then looked more closely at Waltz and said, “Aren’t you Jacob Waltz, the famous Gypsy fighter? Please accept my apology, and don’t smack me for my clumsiness.”

By this time, Otto was there with his bar towel. Weiser turned to him and said, “Otto, why didn’t you tell me I was sitting next to the best bare-knuckle boxer in Nagold?” Without waiting for an answer, Weiser turned to Waltz and said, “You must permit me to buy you dinner, Mr. Waltz. It’s the least I can do to make up for drenching you in your own drink.”

Otto’s wife Hilda had been watching from the doorway. She caught Weiser’s nod and came over. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said graciously. “A table for two overlooking the garden?”

“By all means, Hilda, and bring us a bottle of your finest champagne,” Weiser replied.

Waltz tried to protest, but he hadn’t eaten since that morning and a new voice in his head said, “Accept it. You deserve a little fun and a good meal.”

Weiser was at his persuasive best as he popped the cork on the champagne bottle, poured two glasses, and handed one to Waltz. “Here’s to the best boxer in Nagold,” he said, raising his glass in a salute.

Waltz had never tasted champagne. As Waltz blushed at Weiser’s praise and took a sip of his drink, Weiser knew he had Waltz just where he wanted him.

Hilda brought them a steaming platter of Waltz’z favorites — beef sauerbraten, potato dumplings, red cabbage, and green beans. He devoured all the food on his plate and guzzled champagne greedily, only half listening to Weiser praise his fighting skills.

As Hilda brought out great slabs of Cherry Nut Cake, Weiser turned the one-way conversation to matches at the Boxing Club, saying, “If I was your manager, I could arrange for you to challenge the club champion.”

This got Waltz’s attention. “No, I don’t think you could,” he protested. “I’m not a member.”

“We can challenge if they decide to have an open competition,” Weiser said.

“I don’t know...,” Waltz murmured, distracted by the cake in front of him.

But Weiser was not backing off. “Trust me,” he said. “That club will have an open tournament and you, Mr. Jacob Waltz, can win it — and half the prize money that goes with it.” He paused, then said softly, “A man can always use extra money, especially when his mother is ill.”