A Beggar's Kingdom Page 22

  “Listen,” Julian says to them, “I didn’t want to go down in the sewers, but I’ll do this for you. After all,” he adds, “we’re trying to raise money for a good cause. We’re trying to get Miri’s future husband out of jail. That’s worth my getting clobbered over, isn’t it?” He glares at Miri. She looks away.

  “Damn straight, it is,” Monk says. “Wait, what? No, you can’t get clobbered. All me money is going on you not getting clobbered. It’s the only way we make money. I thought you understood.”

  “I do, Monk,” Julian says. “I was making a joke. I thought you understood.”

  “Oh,” Monk says, as if unsure what a joke is. “Ha ha.”

  Miri won’t look at Julian. She turns to her mother. Julian’s temper continues to rumble while his body engages in an ultimate hustle: making himself look like a bourgeois milksop who’s never raised a hand to a dog, much less a human being. Clearly, from Miri’s reaction, he’s been doing a bang-up job of looking like a wimp so far. Since Topanga, everywhere he’s gone, Julian has been nothing but Ralph Dibny, the intellectual dweeb in a suit. A teacher, a writer, a gardener, a brothel keeper, an apothecary.

  Well, no more.

  Now he will be what he is in the true of his heart—a fighter.

  He turns away from them long enough to slip the rawhide rope that holds his crystal and beret over his head and to drop them into a pocket deep in his breeches. He doesn’t want anyone to notice the crystal; they might think it’s worth something, and if he gets knocked out, they’ll steal it off him. He can’t fight with it on. But he also can’t fight without it on his body. What if he gets beaten lifeless?

  His so-called friends pool their meager resources to see how much they can bet. With Agatha’s threepence and the change in their pockets, they scrape up a shilling. Julian doesn’t know how this can be. Miri is clearly not contributing from the purse he had given her with the two crowns in it. What about the rest of them? They roll drunks every night who jingle with shillings and cufflinks. Where’s all that money?

  Julian asks, but no one will admit to anything. The money’s gone, that’s all anyone knows. And frankly, Flora looks like the kind of girl who spends it as fast as she makes it, and she doesn’t make it that fast.

  “He’s got money,” Miri says, pointing at Julian. “He bragged to me the other day how he’s got lots.”

  They turn to Julian, expecting him to solve their financial dilemma. Julian shakes his head as he digs into his coat pockets. How is it that one way or another, the con men—and women—not only manage to separate the fool from his money but somehow get the fool to agree to get himself beat up in the process. He counts his coins. Thirty-two shillings. Monk’s pupils dilate as if he’s watching a naked woman dance.

  In a gaggle, they start toward Covent Garden with Monk hyperactively and repetitively explaining the hustle to Julian. He must look like a country gentleman, having a stroll down the Strand after supper at the Savoy Palace, who decides to try his luck in a fight. He can’t ever admit that he knows Monk and the rest. Julian agrees and then stipulates his own rules. “We have only one chance to make money off this shindig,” he says, “and that’s before they see me fight. The second time around—if there is a second time—you’ll be lucky to get a farthing on a shilling, and I’m not fighting for you for halfpennies. I’ve seen how they bludgeon each other over at the Lamb and Flag. They bring beefy criminals into that pit. When it ends, someone’s always getting dragged out feet first. You understand why I don’t want that to be me, right?”

  “Can you take a bare-knuckle punch, though?” Monk asks. Miri makes a scoffing sound. Julian wants to take a punch from Monk right then and there to prove to her he can.

  “You don’t seem so sure.” Monk is anxious. “I don’t want Miri to be right—I don’t want to hang if you lose yer miserable life.”

  “Miri’s always right,” says Miri.

  “Miri is not always right,” Julian counters, adding to Monk, “You worry about your end, and I’ll worry about mine. Oh, and one more thing—whatever we win, I get back the money I put in, which is thirty-two shillings, plus half the winnings.”

  Monk rebels like a proud Colonial.

  “Then I’m not doing it,” Julian says. “Half, Monk. I’m putting in all the capital and taking all the risk. I’m gambling everything and stand to lose everything.” Involuntarily Julian shudders when he says this. “Are you in danger of getting maimed? No. So consider my half of the pot your punishment for trying to rob me. Drive up the odds if you can, and we’ll see what we see.”

  Monk has no choice but to agree.

  In Covent Garden, in a crook of a claustrophobic alley named Rose Street stands the Lamb and Flag, and at sunset behind the pub in the beer garden, when the parish constables are changing shifts and every decent human being is out having supper, the crowd gathers gaily for the daily blood-letting. All the tables and chairs have been pushed to the side. The mob surrounds the garden which is now a fighting pit. Everyone stands, tankard in hand, screaming and cheering. The spectators are geographically separated from the cluster of gamblers.

  Julian instructs Monk to go to Red Corner and deal with Big Legs, and not to Black Corner that’s manned by Little Legs. Julian has seen that dude at work. Little Legs is nasty and greedy, plus he’s a swindler. He gives exorbitantly long odds and then counts on the drunk gamblers’ poor math skills by paying out the wrong amounts. Big Legs gives shorter odds but pays what he owes. “Don’t get greedy, Monk,” Julian says. “Go to Big Legs.”

  “But Little Legs is my friend,” Monk says in feeble protest.

  “Of course he is. Why am I not surprised that you’d be friends with a ruthless felon like Little Legs, Monk?”

  “We was card sharpers together. Made some good money on Old Nob back in the day.” Old Nob is cribbage.

  “Did you hear what I said to you or are you deaf? Go to Big Legs.”

  In his fine suit, Julian pushes his way to the front. Meanwhile in the pit, the smaller man gets his nose broken. The crowd cheers raucously. Julian has seen the big guy before. He is the cock of the game. His name is Mr. “Smackdown” Brown. Julian has yet to see him lose a fight. A heavyweight. Well over six feet, probably 220. A brute who thinks force alone will tip the scales, and he’s not wrong, force goes a long way. Aside from that, Brown’s got another handicap. Like Julian, he can’t see well out of one of his eyes. Brown barely has to compensate for this since all the men here fight right-handed, so all the blows come to the left side of his face and body. Julian is counting on that to be Brown’s downfall. Because to adjust for his own lopsided vision, the right-handed Julian had long ago trained himself to fight southpaw. He can’t see perfectly out of his left eye, but he can dominate with either hand. This afternoon, he will fight left-handed. He judges that no one in this crowd, in London, in 1775, has ever seen a man throw a left uppercut or a left cross. He hopes they don’t think him a warlock; that, coupled with Lexington and Concord, could be his undoing.

  “Who’s next?” the emcee yells, a whittled man, tinier than Monk. They call him Mr. Tall.

  When no one else volunteers, Jasper shoves Julian forward. Julian takes off his black felt hat and throws it in the ring. The crowd takes one look at him—polished shoes, frock coat, clean face, quiet manner—and roars with laughter. Julian doesn’t take it personally. The hefty man he’s about to fight is naked from the waist up and missing some teeth. Everyone can evaluate him upfront. Julian, on the other hand, has all his teeth and wears silk hose. No one notices his broken and re-set nose—a tell, if ever there was one.

  Mr. Tall asks him if he’s fighting of his own free will. Julian nods. He’s asked to pick a fighting name. He calls himself Mr. Concord, for the battle across the Atlantic that’s already been won or lost, depending on your perspective. In his other life, when he was a prizefighter, training for the World Middleweight title, he was Julian “the Hammer” Cruz, to honor his mother’s Norse heritage as well
as to draw attention to the force of his fists. Here he’ll be just plain Mr. Concord.

  The betting begins. The shouting, the frenzied calling of odds, the writing down of amounts with wax crayons on torn bits of paper continues for ten or fifteen minutes. Mr. Concord stands calmly in the fighting pit, hiding his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes straight ahead. He doesn’t meet Brown’s gaze. Sometimes fighters can tell when they’re being hustled. Something in the ice of their opponents’ eyes. Julian doesn’t want to take any chances.

  Finally, the betting’s done. Now Julian can undress. He hopes Monk has locked in good odds. He takes off his coat, the same coat Miri had given him his first day in the rookery. Thirty shillings at 20 to 1 odds will win the gang thirty pounds. That’s a lot of money. Monk would have to steal two solid gold watches and face death to make that kind of money. Julian unbuttons his fine cloth olive green waistcoat. He unbuttons his spotless white shirt and pulls off his cufflinks. He knows that in a moment, Mr. Tall, Big Legs, Little Legs, possibly even the dense and toothless Mr. Brown, are going to know a hustle when they see it. In a moment, when Julian removes the rest of his costume, Miri will know who he is. It’s time to reveal himself to the skittish and unseeing Miryam.

  And when Julian stands shirtless and motionless before them in the warm June evening, wearing only his shoes and breeches, they see it. A thrilled hush rolls through the crowd. They thought they were about to witness a mutilation. But when they catch sight of Julian’s lean, strongly muscled boxer’s body, when they catch sight of his powerful arms and chest, they realize they’re going to witness something better. They’re going to see an actual fight. Julian won’t look into Mr. Brown’s face to check if the giant realizes it, too. Julian’s hands remain in his pockets. He has never fought in a circus like this, and he’s fought in some real dives in the Mojave. If only Ashton could see him now. He would go ballistic. Thrilled but ballistic. Ashton was never one for unbalanced fights. Not good for the fighters, not good for the audience, he used to say. But Julian wants to make it good for this audience. After all, Miri is watching.

  Standing in the center of the pit, in a sonorous voice, Mr. Tall reads the Prize Ring rules of 1743 to the crowd that knows them by heart, reciting the rules loudly and drunkenly along with the emcee. “There’s no time limit! There’s no head-butting! There’s no biting! There’s no kicking, kneeing, holding, or throwing! There is no other weapons of any kind! There’s no hitting below the belt! There’s no hitting the fighter when he is down! When the fighter is down for a count of thirty (thirty!), the fight is called, and the man standing is declared the victor!”

  The crowd cheers.

  “Mr. Brown, Mr. Concord, do you understand these rules?”

  Mr. Brown and Mr. Concord nod.

  “Then step in. When I ring my bell, the fight will begin.”

  How long has it been since Julian has heard a ringing of the bell, signaling the start of a real fight? Fourteen years. How he has missed it. Julian, who until now has kept his hands in his pockets, takes them out, steps into the center of the pit, and raises his fists to his chest, leading with his right, rearing with his left. The strongest hand is always at the back. The crowd howls with laughter. “What are you doing keeping your right arm forward, imbecile?” he hears someone shout. “You gonner get clobbered!”

  Mr. Brown is used to fighters backing away from him, so he doesn’t know what to do about Julian, who, as soon as the bell rings, charges like a battering ram and hits Smackdown Brown with a straight right, and before the man can turn or sway, follows with a left hook to the jaw. Because he’s blind in one eye, Brown doesn’t see it. His head snapping back, the man staggers, loses his balance and falls. The crowd goes wild. There is screaming, jumping, hooting, hollering.

  Julian stands to the side and waits for Mr. Brown to get up. It takes the colossus until the count of twenty to recover. He doesn’t move or respond to the first ten. But get back up he does, and with his face and ears livid, becomes a Madrid bull, head down, chin at his chest. And like a matador, Julian steps out of Brown’s way, letting the force of the man’s big body propel him into the crowd. The laughter makes Brown all the angrier because now he’s being humiliated.

  Mr. Brown is strong and game and enraged, but he’s also untrained. He is a truck without a driver, barreling down the highway. He doesn’t pace himself and doesn’t protect his face, especially on the right. He’s not used to protecting anything, and this is his downfall. A man who hasn’t learned to protect himself—the cardinal rule of all fighting—will not last long in combat. Brown keeps his fists chest-level, leaving Julian to pound his unprotected gut, his solar plexus and ribs, and to slap the top of his constantly bowed head. Julian hits Brown from left and right, from down and sideways, he dances around him, feinting away from most return contact. At one point, Brown tries to land a dozen punches, and every one of them misses as Julian ducks and bobs like a street jester away from balls pitched at his head. Wildly Brown flails. Every few swings, he glances Julian’s head and arms. For every blow he lands, Smackdown gets back five, but you gotta give it to the big guy, he keeps lunging. Brown’s entire strategy is offense: one mighty punch, the opponent laid out. He doesn’t know what to do with someone who’s toying with him, who bobs and sways and slips, who ducks right and hits left, jabbing and short righting him. Julian spins Brown around, disorients him, and then hits him with a combination cross that nearly knocks him down for the second time.

  The bell doesn’t ring again because there is only one round. During a match, all time stops in the ring. Without the bell, a boxer can’t tell if a minute has passed or an hour. You fight until you fall. Julian knows how long the fight lasts only by the condition of the man in front of him. Much too soon, a bloodied, confused Brown begins to wobble. Has Julian given the crowd their money’s worth? From their roar, it seems that he has. Has he given himself some seldom-found joy, especially these days? Regretfully, he supposes so. Julian hits Brown with four straight rights in a row and follows with a left uppercut. Brown flaps sideways and swings on his way to the ground. He connects on that last punch, clocking Julian pretty good, breaking his lip. Mr. Smackdown Brown hits the dirt, shudders once, and is still.

  You can’t say that about the crowd. They remain in a frenzy for ten minutes, nearly in bare-knuckled combat themselves, as Big Legs and Little Legs pay out on the unlikely David downing Goliath. Wiping the blood from his mouth, Julian stands basking in the applause for a few moments. Mr. Tall grabs Julian’s fist and raises it in the air. Julian glimpses Miri’s disbelieving face deep in the crowd. He throws on his white shirt, buttons up, grabs the rest of his clothes and hurries through the slapping, congratulating, shrieking crowd to wait for his gang on the corner of Long Acre and Church Lane, as agreed. Even from blocks away, he can still hear them shouting on Rose Street.

  When he is finally by himself, Julian smiles. To defeat another man in a fierce contest of nothing but fist and will is something. The memories of Julian’s joyous days and bitter years roar past him in a heady, fast-moving carnival barge. How much he had once. How much he has lost. It takes him a while to calm down.

  Monk is beside himself, as is Jasper, and Flora, and even Mortimer. Miri says nothing, hiding near Flora’s shoulder. Julian doesn’t challenge her or address her, though he would like to, would like to come up to her and quietly ask if she still thinks of him as feckless Dibny. But Julian has learned long ago that no one likes a sore winner. In victory, as in defeat, there must be nothing but grace. He wanted to show her what he could be, and that he has done. How she reacts remains to be seen.

  The odds were 20 to 1. Julian can tell that Monk wishes he knew math better, like Little Legs, so he can cheat Julian out of his half of the money. You’d think Monk would be happy getting fifteen quid, more money than he’s ever seen at one time in his life, but no. “There’s only one of you but six of us, mate,” Monk grumbles. “I don’t know why you have to take half.”

&
nbsp; “Because that was the deal, Monk.”

  “I know, but still. We need it more than you do.”

  “That wasn’t the deal, Monk.”

  Monk can’t stay upset for long. He’s too happy to have some real money in his pocket.

  “I tell you what,” Julian says, refocusing the little man. “I’ll feed us tonight. Food and drink are on me. Which way to Pottage Island? Onward! I’ll buy the meat and mead and then it’s back to the castle, and you lost boys can eat, drink and be merry, and continue to live by plunder.”

  “That’s us!” Monk cries. “The plundering lost boys!”

  What a celebration they have, what a drunken debauched feast of mutton and wine. The naked girl with the fiddle outdoes herself. This time both her breasts are out. Julian concludes that London is not what one might kindly call a sober town. Gin and respectability do not hand in hand together go. But gin and topless girls go together very well.

  Hours into the night, from his corner at the long communal table, Julian overhears Jasper trying to woo Flora with tall tales of himself as a different man in the unattainable future. “Please, darling, don’t be mad at me. I know I had a bit to drink again, but we was celebratin’. It’s not going to be like this all the time. Look, we got us some money, finally, and after this, I’m going to get a real job. Truly I am, why won’t you believe me, my tartlet? I’m going to rent us those nice two rooms yer always eyeing above Lou’s. Why do we need two rooms? Well, one for you and me, and one for the baby, of course. And you won’t have to work anymore, Flora, I’ll do all the work. I don’t want no girl of mine to work. If you want to tell fortunes on the side, that’s okay, but no more strenuous labor for you, my blossom. I know I have to stop the gin, Flora, don’t you think I know that? I will stop—tomorrow. We’ll get married—tomorrow. And rent those rooms—tomorrow. And have that baby you wanted—tomorrow. Don’t worry, Flora. Everything will be good—tomorrow.”