The Legacy (57 page)

Evelyne was silent, but as they drove off she saw in the distance a huge hotel towering above the shops and apartment buildings. The Metropole Hotel, 2300 South Michigan Avenue.

‘Driver, take us to that hotel, please, and, Ed, I want to go in this time.’ She would hear no argument, even when the cab driver tried to dissuade her, implying that the Metropole, of all hotels, would most certainly refuse them. Freedom said nothing, he was so taken aback, but the driver went on ominously about the Metropole and that he would lay odds” against their being allowed in, not just because of Freedom but for other reasons. Evelyne repeated her instruction to take them to the hotel and gripped Freedom’s hand.

As they stopped, Ed made to get out, but Evelyne wouldn’t let him move. She insisted on leaving them alone and, head high, she walked into the lobby.

‘She’ll get no joy in dere, pal, I’m tellin’ya, I know dis town an’ I know dis hotel, ya tryin’ the wrong place.’

All their eyes followed Evelyne as she walked from the cab through the revolving doors and into the ornate lobby.

Inside it was opulent, thickly carpeted, with massive ferns and palms in every corner. There was so much brass and so many chandeliers that the whole lobby seemed to glitter.

Evelyne strode to the reception desk, a long, polished counter with racks of keys and pigeonholes for letters. She had to wait for a gentleman in front of her to sign the register, a burly, fat man smoking a cigar. The clouds of smoke rose up to form a ring around his head.

A clerk, seeing Evelyne waiting, hurried forward to attend to her.

‘I wish to book two double rooms, one with a child’s cot, and private bathrooms, please.’

The clerk reached for the register and thumbed through the pages.

‘There will be a Mr and Mrs Ed Meadows, and Mr and Mrs Freedom Stubbs with the child. Mr Stubbs is here as a contender for the World Heavyweight Boxing Championship. I am his wife.’

The clerk murmured and leafed’ through his book, and the large man with the cigar turned to Evelyne and beamed. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I couldn’t help overhearing, there’s more fighters comin’ in for that title. The whole of Europe’s after it so I wish you luck, and may I say your husband’s a fortunate man to have such a beautiful wife.’

Evelyne smiled her thanks, but she was shaking. Aware that the clerk could hear her, she told the fat stranger that her husband was the British Heavyweight Champion. ‘You may have heard of him, Freedom Stubbs, he’s a Romany gypsy, a prince.’

Even to her the statement sounded childish, and the big man laughed. From his back pocket he took a roll of banknotes larger than his fist, turned back to the receptionist and began peeling some off. They were fifty-dollar bills, and he was paying for his room upfront.

A doorman appeared outside and leaned on the window of the waiting cab. He told the cabbie to move on, go round the block - he could return in a few minutes but the forecourt had to be cleared. The cabbie started the engine and they did a slow crawl out of the forecourt. Coming in was a glittering Cadillac limousine, bright yellow and so highly polished that the lamps and wheels seemed to spark. The chauffeur rushed from his seat to the rear passenger door and two burly men in dark-grey suits and smart white shirts and ties hurried to the entrance. They stood like guards as the chauffeur stepped back, holding the car door open.

A square, stocky man stepped out of the limousine, wearing a pale lilac linen suit, a white fedora hat, and carrying white gloves and a silver-topped walking-stick. He didn’t acknowledge the two men standing on guard, but strode past them into the hotel.

Evelyne was still waiting patiently at the desk, as the clerk took forever to flip through the register, and as the brass-framed doors swung open and the lilac clad gentleman entered, the whole lobby went quiet. The two bodyguards walked immediately ahead of him, and two more appeared from behind the potted palms, hemming the squat man between them.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t seem to have nothin’ available right now …’

Evelyne had hoped so hard it would be all right that she was bitterly disappointed. She was unaware that a porter had been sent outside to check on the occupants of the waiting cab, had taken one look at Freedom and given the thumbs down.

She had not noticed the flurry of excitement behind her, she had been so intent on the receptionist. The man wearing the flashy lilac suit was heading for the lifts, the two thickset men making a path for him. There was actually no need, as everyone stepped back quickly as soon as they saw the group. Evelyne clenched her teeth, trying hard not to cry. She knew that by now Edward would be starving and fretful, but she thanked the clerk, and her initial show of confidence ebbed fast as she hurried towards the exit.

She was so eager to leave that she bumped into one of the two bodyguards. She barely touched the man, even apologized, but the next minute she was shoved roughly aside, with such force that she fell against a pillar. This was the final straw and she turned on the man, catching him by the sleeve. ‘There was no need to push me like that, it was an accident.’

She received no reply, but another shove. As she struck the pillar again, she dropped her handbag and all the contents spilled out on to the marble floor. As she scrabbled for her things, she missed seeing the boss give his protector a nasty crack on the shoulder with his walking stick. She only became aware of him when she saw, close to the handkerchief that had fallen from her bag, a pair of highly-polished, two-toned shoes. Her eyes travelled up the lilac pants to look into the dark eyes beneath the fedora hat.

‘You okay, ma’am? Want me to give you a hand … here, allow me.’

As he bent down, she could smell a heavy, sweet perfume. The perfectly manicured hand picked up Edward’s well-chewed dummy and held it out. Evelyne stood up. She was a head taller than the man, and his chubby face beamed up at her as he asked about her accent.

‘I’m from Britain, Wales.’

The fedora was lifted off, he made her a small, courtly bow. As he replaced his hat, he asked if she was a guest of the hotel. Evelyne bit her lip, her eyes filling with tears. He was so friendly, so charming … he took out a clean white handkerchief and handed it to her. She was deeply embarrassed, and try as she might to stop them, her eyes kept filling with tears. She wiped her face and told him the hotel was full, she could not get rooms. She was unaware that the lobby had come to a complete standstill as she talked to him.

The man swept over to the counter, and now Evelyne could see the impact he made on the porters and desk staff. Every move he made was shadowed by his attendants, and now they seemed more than cordial, bowing and scraping as if the man were royalty. She watched him talk quiedy to the clerk, then he gestured for her to join him at the desk.

‘They tell me your husband’s gonna be a contender -I tell you what, if you make sure I get a ringside seat, I’ll make sure you get the best rooms in this hotel, whaddya say, pretty lady? Is it a deal?’

Evelyne was speechless as the clerk laid two keys on the counter.

‘You got a kid with you? A boy, is it? I gotta boy, see, Sonny, I call him Sonny.’ A photograph was taken from his wallet and displayed with great pride, then replaced carefully so as not to crease it.

The clerk coughed nervously, and looked at his ledger. ‘Well, sir, there’s forty-eight and fifty-eight.’

‘How’s that suit ya, Mrs Stubbs? Two suites next to each other?’

Evelyne flushed and managed to say ‘thank you’ several times.

A nearby bellhop was poised on his toes in his eagerness to please. At a wave from the fat, manicured hand he was at Evelyne’s side.

‘Boy’ll help you carry your bags, ma’am, don’t you forget my tickets, just leave them at the desk …’

Evelyne almost curtsied with gratitude, and followed the bellhop out to the waiting taxi. Behind her she missed a strange, chilling scene.

The gentleman in the lilac suit leaned across the polished mahogany desk, swiftly grabbed the clerk by the lapel and pulled him halfway over the counter. ‘You treat a lady with discourtesy again and you’ll be found with your balls stuffed down your goddam throat, you pint-sized prick.’

The terrified clerk, released, gabbled an apology, and found himself lightly shoved against his letter-rack. ‘Make sure they get first-class treatment, flowers, fruit sent up, the whole bit, okay?’

‘Yes sir, Mr Capone, sir. Right away, sir.’

Capone stuffed a twenty-dollar bill in the frightened man’s pocket and moved off towards the bank of lifts. His bodyguard fell into step beside him, opened the lift doors and checked it over before Capone got in. As the last grey-suited man stepped inside, the folding gate was slammed on his hand. He gasped with pain, but made no other sound.

‘Check ‘em out. Who’s with the broad, get me the whole lowdown on ‘em.’

As the lift glided up to his private floor, Capone adjusted his silk cravat in his reflection in the polished brass control panel. He was in a good mood. He began to sing. His voice was strong, not quite Beniamino Gigli, but no one would dare say he wasn’t at least on a par.

A week after Freedom’s arrival in Chicago there was still no fight arranged. Ed was beginning to think Sir Charles was out of his depth. He had to admit the influx of contenders for the heavyweight title didn’t make bouts all that easy to organize. Sir Charles assured Ed that he was trying.

‘I have to look after Freedom’s interests - not quite so cut and dried as we had anticipated. There are a lot of contenders, and Freedom’s nowhere near the top bracket. Thing I don’t want is that he has to plough his way through every boxer arriving in the States.’

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?’