The Big Bout Page 15

  “Linderman’s first punch is a looping right hook that barely misses,” Red said. “He’s swinging for the fences, folks. I could feel the force of that one down here.”

  Linderman led with his right because of Clip’s left eye––something I was sure he would go to again and again as the fight went on.

  Clip was moving and dancing, bouncing and bobbing about, avoiding the haymakers Lindermen was throwing. He wasn’t able to throw much of anything himself and he landed even less, but he had yet to be hit, yet to taste leather or canvas.

  All this continued throughout a first round that was mostly Linderman feeling Clip out and Clip just trying to survive.

  Even this early in the bout, the crowd began to show its displeasure for what was a low-action, pedestrian fight.

  Radio Red was saying, “The crowd is growing restless already. Some have already started a petition to change Freddy’s name from Fighting to Dodging and Ducking.”

  The bell sounded. Round one was completed.

  Clip came over and collapsed onto the small stool, panting and wheezing.

  As Gus began to coach him, I continued to search the crowd, and Roosevelt’s voice could once again be heard through the PA.

  “There are pests who swarm through the lobbies of the Congress and the cocktail bars of Washington, representing these special groups as opposed to the basic interests of the Nation as a whole. They have come to look upon the war primarily as a chance to make profits for themselves at the expense of their neighbors––profits in money or in terms of political or social preferment. Such selfish agitation can be highly dangerous in wartime. It creates confusion. It damages morale. It hampers our national effort. It muddies the waters and therefore prolongs the war.”

  Gus was saying, “He’s loading up on you, trying to knock you out with every punch. Be faster. Hit him hard two times while he’s pulling back them big arms of his.”

  Clip nodded, but was breathing too heavily to respond.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He nodded, making eye contact with me to let me know he meant it.

  The ding of the bell, and round two was underway.

  “Again Linderman comes out swinging,” Red said. “Charging out of his corner like a bull, throwing one bomb after another––a straight right, an overhand left, a right hook, followed by a left uppercut. Freddy is quick, bobbing, weaving, dancing around the bigger, slower man, but his arms and hands and shoulders are taking a beating, a brutal beating. And it’ll all be for nothing if even one of Linderman’s punches gets through.”

  Clip continued to move. The crowd continued to boo, some even beginning to throw popcorn and trash into the ring.

  I tried to figure out what the killer was waiting for. Based on what he was seeing, did he think Clip would lose the fight all on his own and there would be no need to take him out? Was he waiting for a particular time or something to happen in the ring? Had the threats been hollow, meant only to intimidate, and so there would be no attempt to kill Clip at all?

  “Freeman buys some real estate by bouncing off the rope and throwing several fast shots,” Red said, “but gives it right back as Linderman once again smothers him.”

  Clip was still managing to avoid Linderman’s biggest punches, but he was getting closer and closer to catching him.

  And then he did.

  “Freeman takes a left to the body and a hard right to the head,” Red announced. “Linderman keeps cutting off the ring, stalking Freeman, finding him, going downstairs with some very hard body shots, then as Freeman brings his arms down, going to the head, sticking the jab . . . and . . . then . . . Down goes Freeman on a Linderman right hook.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  The whistles, yells, and claps from the crowd swelled, the bloodthirsty cheering deafening.

  Linderman landed a perfectly placed right hook to Clip’s jaw, just beneath his missing eye, and Clip went down hard, but somehow rolled on the canvas and popped right back up.

  Which was a mistake.

  Linderman was on him again, putting him right back down with right hook and left uppercut.

  “Stay down,” Gus yelled. “Get yourself together. Don’t get up till seven or eight.”

  Or don’t get up at all, I thought, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  After a seven count, Clip climbed back to his feet, but before Linderman could cross the ring to finish him off, mercifully––or not––the bell rang.

  Red was saying, “You could give Freeman three eyes. Wouldn’t matter.”

  Between rounds, Clip tried to recover, Gus coached him as best he could, and I continued scanning the now raucous crowd.

  On the PA, barely audible above the crowd, Roosevelt was saying, “Overconfidence and complacency are among our deadliest enemies. Last spring—after notable victories at Stalingrad and in Tunisia and against the U-boats on the high seas—overconfidence became so pronounced that war production fell off. In two months, June and July, 1943, more than a thousand airplanes that could have been made and should have been made were not made. Those who failed to make them were not on strike. They were merely saying, ‘The war’s in the bag, so let’s relax.’ That attitude on the part of anyone—government or management or labor—can lengthen this war. It can kill American boys.”

  Roosevelt’s voice faded, seconds climbed out, the bell sounded, round three began.

  Clip was obviously still wobbly. Linderman pressed his advantage, practically running across the ring and letting his hands go.

  “Now Linderman is getting whatever he wants,” Red said. “Whipping Freeman from pillar to post, landing some violent two- and three-punch combinations at will. In between, he’s delivering some vicious body shots. I don’t know how much more Freeman can take.”

  Somehow Clip stayed on his feet, stumbling about, falling away from the punches, leaning against the ropes, bouncing back into them.

  Linderman kept coming. Clip, who seemed to be finding his feet again, blocked the worst of it with his arms and gloves and kept moving.

  “Folks, Fighting Freddy Freeman may not be the boxer that Leonaldo Lights Out Linderman is, but he’s got no shortage of heart. It may get him killed, but he’s not going away easy.”

  Slowly, Clip gained a little ground, began throwing in a little offense in between fending off Linderman.

  “Freeman has picked up the pace a bit,” Red said, “fighting off Linderman with two- and three-shot combinations. Freeman is not without some skill. He’s okay. He’s just not a big puncher, but he’s fast . . . and there’s a formula here for Freeman to get back in the fight. If he can keep up this pace, if he can continue to be the more active fighter, keep Linderman missing, keep avoiding those Lights Out shots . . . Freeman continues to keep the big puncher at bay, but how much longer can that last? There it is. Linderman snaps out a stiff jab and catches Freeman coming in. There’s blood coming from the Negro’s nose now.”

  And then just like before . . . Linderman landed a perfectly placed right hook on Clip’s jaw, just beneath his blind spot. This one dropped Clip flat.

  “Down goes Freeman,” Red yelled into the mic.

  The crowd erupted again.

  Clip didn’t move.

  Stay down. Please stay down.

  “Clear your head,” Gus yelled. “Take your time. Get up when you ready.”

  Clip gave no indication he heard him––or could hear anyone. He had still yet to so much as twitch.

  “It appears Freeman may be out cold,” Red said.

  The ref moved toward him just then, starting the ten count.

  Before he reached him, Clip began pushing himself up off the canvas, his arms shaking from the effort.

  He stood before the ref reached ten, but I wasn’t sure he even knew where he was.

  “Freeman is up on his feet,” Red said.

  Clip stumbled back into the corner where we were.

  “That’s enough, Cli––Freddy,” I yelled. “You’v
e done enough.”

  He shook his head.

  Gus said, “Show me somethin’, son, or I’m’a have to call it.”

  The ref wiped Clip’s gloves on his shirt and said, “You want to continue?”

  Clip nodded.

  The ref backed out of the way.

  And then the gunman made his move.

  From across the ring, blocked mostly by the mammoth mound that was Linderman, a young, chubby, pale, pimply faced kid jumped up on the apron of the ring and pointed a pistol toward Clip.

  I jumped toward the ring, missing the step and falling. Reaching up for the rope with my right hand, it wasn’t until I missed grabbing it that I realized my hand was no longer there.

  I hit the canvas hard, landing on my back, and began to spin.

  I was useless.

  I couldn’t even stand, let alone draw my weapon and fire at the boy.

  Clip, unaware of what was going on, began to take a step toward Linderman and the gunman behind him, aiding in his own assassination.

  Reaching beneath the ropes with my left hand––the only one I had––I did the only thing I could. I grabbed Clip’s ankle.

  He was unsteady anyway, dead on his feet. It didn’t take much. As he tried to move forward, I tripped him and he hit the canvas for a third and final time.

  The gunman fired.

  Missed everyone and everything.

  Screams. Yells. Panic.

  Linderman turned toward the sound that came from just behind him, snapping out a stiff left jab and a right hook that knocked the boy off the ring and sent him hard to the asphalt of Harrison below.

  In an instant Howell and Folsom were on him, cuffing him, securing him in the roughest possible manner, though he was still out cold and probably would be for some time to come.

  The crowd dispersed. The big bout was over. Linderman was declared the winner, but the greatest victory of the day went to Clip, hands down.

  Someone turned up Roosevelt again, but nobody was listening.

  “That is the way to fight and win a war—all out—and not with half an eye on the battlefronts abroad and the other eye and a half on personal, selfish, or political interests here at home.”

  “Bastard knew I was about to come back,” Clip said. “Why he tried to shoot my ass when he did. Waited just a little longer, I’d’a won the fight.”

  I nodded.

  We were standing near the ring. For the moment it was just the two of us.

  “You saved my life,” he said.

  “I’m not sure that fat fucker could’ve actually hit you,” I said. “Not an easy shot with a pistol.”

  “’Specially way I’s bouncin’,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said, “you were going to bob and weave around a bullet, huh?”

  “You doubt it?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t doubt that you can do anything,” I said. “Hell of a fight.”

  “Thanks for makin’ sure it wasn’t my last.”

  “Clip,” I said, my voice thick and hoarse, “you’re the best man I know. I feel so blessed to have you for a friend.”

  David Howell slowly walked over to us.

  “Know who that was?” he asked.

  We both shook our heads.

  “Nobody,” he said. “A nobody. Just some punk. Says he just hates niggers. Wants the next heavyweight to be white.”

  “Make him a everybody, not a nobody,” Clip said.

  Howell started to say something, then stopped.

  He knew Clip was right. The scary thing about the kid with the gun wasn’t that he was no one. It was that he could be anyone. The sickness he was infected with was a contagion carried by far too many among us, most of whom looked as hapless and harmless as the pale, pimply faced kid.

  Chapter Forty-five

  A few days later, Lauren and I and Clip and Miki were walking down Harrison toward the water.

  It was evening, dim duskiness fading to grayish blackness. Lights from stores blinked on and joined that of cars and streetlamps to keep the darkness at bay.

  Lauren and I were holding hands, something Clip and Miki-dressed-as-Judy dared not do. We were all walking slowly, enjoying every step.

  Clip, still spent and sore, was doing everything slowly these days.

  We had just left the office and didn’t know where we were going, but we didn’t care. We were still here. We were together. All other considerations could wait.

  Across the street, on the crowded sidewalk on the opposite side of Harrison, my old partner and former Pinkerton Ray Parker stood watching us, a quizzical expression on his face.

  He was wearing the same outfit he had been when I had killed him.

  “Ray?” I said.

  “What?” Lauren said beside me.

  “I thought I saw––”

  "How's the eye, Freddy?" a young soldier passing by Clip said.

  "You were gonna get him," his companion, also a young soldier, said.

  "Who tried to shoot you?" the first one asked.

  Neither boy stopped or even slowed, both gone before Clip could respond, carried along by the anonymous throng.

  “Jimmy,” a voice called from behind us. “Lauren.”

  We all stopped and turned to see Kay Hudson carrying a suitcase coming up behind us.

  I glanced back across the street. Ray was gone. Had he been there at all? Were we here now?

  “Hey Kay,” Lauren said. “How are you?”

  She frowned and shook her head. "Did you see the paper this morning?"

  Kay had interviewed Clip as Freddy for the News Herald, giving him a chance to say even more of what mattered to him and giving her the chance to question what really happened to Jeff Bennett. Clip also took questions about Freddy's future and Kay included information about the assassination attempt and wrote eloquently about the culpability of the sick society that had fostered the shooter's racism and paranoia.

  "She got it pulled," Kay said.

  We all knew the she was Lady Bird Bennett.

  "You expected anything different, you in the wrong profession," Clip said.

  "Hoped, not expected," she said. "Figured they'd edit out what they didn't like. Never thought they'd scrap the whole thing. Anyway, I’m leaving in a little while. Wanted to say goodbye.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To a better place than this,” she said. “Back to the front, back to where enemies are easy to identify and come at you head-on.”

  I nodded.

  "Just know when you over there, we be back here fightin' the battles on the home front," Clip said. "We not gonna let what happened to Becky and Jeff go . . . unaddressed."

  Kay nodded and gave him a look that conveyed both gratitude and futility.

  “I’m so sorry again,” Lauren said. “For all that happened. For all you’ve been through.”

  Kay’s eyes drifted down to our hands, which were still clasped.

  “I told you,” she said.

  She was looking at me. I waited.

  “Told you Becky and I weren’t allowed to have it,” she said. “To have love. To have what you two have.”

  Clip leaned forward a little. “You ain’t the only one ain't allowed,” he said, nodding toward Miki. “Truth is, world ain’t big on lettin’ no one have it.”

  “They’re doing all right,” she said, nodding toward me and Lauren.

  “For how long?” he said.

  I squeezed Lauren’s hand.

  “Hell, how long you think they had it?” Clip asked. “What you think they had to go through to get it? You really think they got long? Think anyone do?”

  “Again,” Lauren said, “we’re very sorry. Wish we could’ve done more.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean I'm not happy for you two. I just meant . . . well, you know. And I know Clip’s right. I know you don’t have long.”

  Those were her final words. As soon as she delivered them, she turned and walked away from us
, back the way she came, quickly vanishing into the throng.

  But those weren’t the final words on the subject.

  As we turned and continued our walk, Lauren squeezed my hand even more tightly.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “we have forever.”

  And with that, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow turned into forever.

  Thank you for reading THE BIG BOUT!

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  About Michael Lister

  Multi-award-winning novelist Michael Lister is a native Floridian best known for literary suspense thrillers and mysteries.

  The Florida Book Review says that “Vintage Michael Lister is poetic prose, exquisitely set scenes, characters who are damaged and faulty,” and Michael Koryta says, “If you like crime writing with depth, suspense, and sterling prose, you should be reading Michael Lister,” while Publisher’s Weekly adds, “Lister’s hard-edged prose ranks with the best of contemporary noir fiction.”

  Michael grew up in North Florida near the Gulf of Mexico and the Apalachicola River in a small town world famous for tupelo honey.

  Truly a regional writer, North Florida is his beat.

  In the early 1990s, Michael became the youngest chaplain within the Florida Department of Corrections. For nearly a decade, he served as a contract, staff, then senior chaplain at three different facilities in the Panhandle of Florida—a unique experience that led to his first novel, 1997’s critically acclaimed, POWER IN THE BLOOD. It was the first in a series of popular and celebrated novels featuring ex-cop turned prison chaplain, John Jordan. Of the John Jordan series, Michael Connelly says, “Michael Lister may be the author of the most unique series running in mystery fiction. It crackles with tension and authenticity,” while Julia Spencer-Fleming adds, “Michael Lister writes one of the most ambitious and unusual crime fiction series going. See what crime fiction is capable of.”