A Bright Tomorrow (23 page)

It was Owen who got to her first, holding her in his arms so that her feet cleared the ground. “You did it, Allie! You did it!”

Allie was very conscious of being pressed against Owen's chest and for one moment could not speak. Then she smiled. “I'll change the costume if you say so, Owen.”

Owen set her down and gazed at her adoringly. “You look beautiful, Allie! Just beautiful!”

Allie knew that this was one of the moments she'd always remember—a picture for her own room of memories.
A blue sky with white clouds. The sound of a calliope. People applauding. Joey's eyes proud and excited
…
and Owen Stuart saying, “You look beautiful, Allie! Just beautiful!”

“Look at her, Owen!” Joey breathed, staring upward as Allie swung back and forth on the trapeze suspended beneath the basket of the balloon. A series of lanterns with reflectors fastened to the sides of the basket cast yellow beams down on Allie as she spun, making a giant swing on the bar. Then at the peak of the swing, she let go, and a cry went up from the spectators as she executed a graceful backward flip. As always, whenever Owen watched Allie's jumps, he seemed to die for a moment. And then her plunging form was arrested so that he swallowed and remembered to breathe.

“That trapeze sure put the icing on the cake, hey, Owen?” Joey talked rapidly as he and Owen reeled in the balloon. When it was settled into place and the silk fell in shapeless folds on the ground, the boy went on, “Ivory Bill says I can do a jump pretty soon. Won't that be great?”

“Just dandy,” Owen said shortly. “Then I can worry about
both
of you!” He left the midway without speaking to Allie, for she was busy signing autographed pictures of herself for a quarter apiece, smiling and joking with the group that had gathered about her.

As Owen moved through the crowd, he failed to see four people who were attempting to locate him. He had received a telegram from Amos, saying he would be down with Lylah for a visit, but Owen expected them later in the week.

“Hey, there he is!” yelled Nick Castellano, catching sight of Owen. But Amos caught his arm. “Wait, Nick, let's talk about this thing.” There was a worried look on Amos's face, and he turned to Lylah for support. I feel pretty bad about this scheme of Nick's, Lylah,” he said soberly. “I think we ought to at least tell Owen what's going on.”

Lylah nodded. “I think so, too. I never liked surprises, and this one could backfire in a big way.”

Nick began speaking very rapidly. He was a little heavier than he had been when Amos had first met him, and he was puffing from exertion. But he was rather proud of his idea, though he'd had to talk fast to sell both Amos and Lylah on the scheme.

When Amos had mentioned that he and Lylah were going to see Owen, Nick had conceived the notion of getting Owen out of the carnival business. “Look,” he had told the pair, “I'm in with the big boys in the boxing game. All I have to do is ask, and they'll give Owen a bout.”

“Professional boxing's different from what Owen's doing, Nick,” Amos had protested. “I've seen some of the pugs walking around talking to themselves.”

But Nick had been persuasive. He'd argued that they owed it to “the Kid,” as he called Owen, to at least give him an opportunity. “Let me go along and take a look,” he begged. “I know fighters pretty good. If I see the Kid ain't got it for the ring, why, I get a little vacation. But if he's got what it takes, Amos, he can make more from one bout in the Garden than he can in a year with that dumb carny. What kind of life is that—fightin' every yokel who comes along…and then only for peanuts? Now
that's
what's going to get the Kid hurt!”

In the end Nick had convinced them, but when they'd left New York in his Ford—one of the first of the Model T's to roll off Henry Ford's new line—there had been a new wrinkle. “This is Jack McVicker,” Nick had said, indicating a large man with a flat nose and a heavy-duty chin. “He's a fighter, Amos. Went up against the big ones a few years ago—even Jim Jeffries. I decided it might be better if a real fighter looked Owen over, so Jack agreed to come, right, Jack?”

“Too right, mate.” McVicker nodded. “Glad to help the young chap out. Might save him a lot of grief, y' know.”

The fighter had a thick Australian accent, and both Amos and Lylah had to listen carefully. They were agreeable…until Nick mentioned that the plan was for McVicker to accept the challenge Owen gave every night.

“Got to test the lad out, y' understand,” McVicker said when he saw the worried looks on their faces. “I'll not hurt him, if that's what you're thinkin'. Just see if he can hit…and if he can take a punch.”

Amos and Lylah had agreed—at least halfheartedly—but now that the time had come, it didn't seem fair. “Let's let Owen in on it, Nick,” Amos urged. “He's not expecting a professional boxer.”

But Nick was persuasive, and McVicker assured them repeatedly that he was now a sparring partner for heavyweight contenders. “That means I do what I'm told, miss.” He nodded toward Lylah. “This gentleman is paying me a hundred dollars to find out if his friend has any business in the ring, and that's all I aim to do.” McVicker's light blue eyes were almost hidden in the squint caused by scar tissue, but he managed to convince both Lylah and Amos that Owen would not get hurt.

“Come on, now,” Nick urged. “The ballyhoo for the show is starting!”

“Let's stay back out of sight, Amos,” Lylah said. “It would make Owen self-conscious if he knew we were here.”

The two of them watched as the barker whipped up the crowd and made the usual challenge. When McVicker called out, “I'll have a go!” Amos shook his head. “I don't feel right about this, Lylah…but it's too late to stop it.”

He bought two tickets. They were finding their seats on the very back row, when Owen came out and stripped off his robe.

“Amos, look at him!” Lylah gasped, staring at the narrow waist that led up to the heavily-muscled upper torso. “Not like my little brother!”

“He's a tremendous athlete,” Amos agreed, then added, “But look at McVicker.”

The boxer had shed his robe, and a cheer went up from the crowd, for he was at least twenty-five pounds heavier than Owen. He had a slight paunch, but as the two men met when the referee bell rang, even Nick was nervous. “Jack's a good fellow…but I hope he remembers this is just a test. He put down the heavyweight champion of the world with one punch when he got mad once.”

Lylah stared at him. “You picked a fine time to tell us!” she said indignantly. “If it gets bad for Owen, I'll go down and stop it myself.”

The two fighters came out, and Owen saw at once that the man was a professional. There was no mistaking that shuffle and the manner in which McVicker kept his guard up. It was not the first time he'd faced a professional, but a warning went off in his head as McVicker threw a left that moved faster than it should from such a heavy man. It was a crisp, snapping blow that he caught on his forearm, but the power of it turned him cold.

McVicker's eyes glinted with approval, for not one boxer in a hundred could have blocked the blow so easily. He saw at once that the young fellow was in magnificent condition—the stomach flat as a board and not an ounce of excess weight on his six-foot frame. McVicker moved forward and tried another left, then a hard right, but both missed as Owen dodged and slipped to one side.
A fine defensive fighter,
the more experienced pugilist noted.
But can he do anything but duck?

He found out soon enough, for Owen knew he couldn't back away from this man for three rounds. He waited until McVicker shot out that fine left jab, dodged it, then sent a counter blow which caught McVicker flush in the jaw. Most men would have gone down, but only a flicker of surprise registered in the big man's eyes, and he came roaring in, throwing blows from every angle.

Can't take this one out with one punch,
Owen thought as he backed away, parrying some of the blows and taking some on his shoulders and elbows. They stung, though, and he ducked into a right that caught him on the neck and sent him sprawling to the floor. He was not hurt, but the crowd yelled, expecting to see a knockout. Owen got to his feet slowly, and by the time the referee wiped his gloves clean and stepped back, Owen had a plan. He knew he could not beat the big man…not unless he outsmarted him.

What will he expect me to do?
Owen asked himself, and the answer came.
He'll come roaring in to finish me off
…
and he'll expect me to back away and try to last out the round. So I guess my best chance is to do exactly the opposite. I may get killed, but he'll whip me anyway—

He had read McVicker's mind, and as soon as the referee stepped back, the fighter went in with all guns blazing. He had learned that after knocking a man down, it was wise to move in for the finish, since a hurt man would usually back up.

But instead of backing up, Owen planted his feet and launched a hard right that caught McVicker coming in. It was a solid blow, with every ounce of Owen's weight behind it, and it took the boxer by surprise. McVicker was halted, and temporarily helpless. Owen saw it and leapt to finish him off…but just at that moment the bell rang, ending the round.

McVicker stumbled back to his corner and plopped down on the stool. He was an old hand and had been hurt before, so that by the time the bell rang, he was able to come out with his eyes clear. He moved carefully, however, expecting the young fighter to rush in for the kill. That was all he needed, for he had the old skills to do it. But he got no chance, for Owen began to circle him, throwing crisp left hands that McVicker could only partially block. The time ran on, and the crowd went wild, but Owen refused to be stampeded. When McVicker saw that his young opponent had no intention of coming to him, he grinned.
A smart boy, this one!
For the rest of the round, he chased Owen but could not corner him, and when the bell rang, he shook his head in bewilderment and went back to his corner.

“You got him, Owen!” Lyle Easterling exclaimed as the bell rang for the last round. “All you got to do is finish him off!”

But Owen had seen the big man's power, and knew it would not be that easy. He went out on his toes, intending to outmaneuver the big fighter, but he had no chance, for McVicker had a plan of his own. He wanted to see if the young man could take a real punch.

It took the older fighter most of the round to land the punch, and he received a pounding in the process. But finally he tied Owen up and sent a whistling right that caught the younger man on the jaw. He stepped back as Owen fell, then turned and went to his corner. He was worried, because in the heat of battle, he had hit the young man with all he had.

He glanced over at Nick who was yelling at him, his face mottled with anger, and then glanced toward Owen.
Shouldn't have done that
, he censured himself and was surprised to see Owen stumble to his feet on the count of eight. McVicker blinked in surprise, for he saw that the young man had been hurt, but his eyes were clear and he was coming out with his hand up in a good defensive position.

McVicker, relieved, used none of his formidable skill in the remaining few seconds. When the bell rang, he dropped his gloves, and said, “Bucko, you're a fine young boxer. Don't know as I ever seen one better.”

The two boxers headed for their dressing rooms, but Owen didn't get the chance to dress. Amos, Lylah, and Nick came through the flap just as he threw off his robe. They surrounded him, Nick and Amos pounding him on the back, their eyes bright with excitement. Lylah finally shoved them out of the way and went over to Owen. “Bend down and kiss me, you gorgeous man!”

Owen was happy to see them and giddy with victory. “Look, get out of here and let me get dressed.”

“Sure, then we can go get something to eat.” Nick nodded. “Is there a good place in this tank town?”

“Yes…if the booth's not taken, Nick.” They left, and Owen dressed quickly.

When he went outside to join them, he was surprised to see McVicker standing beside them. Owen cast a suspicious glance at Amos, who shook his head, protesting, “I had nothing to do with this, Owen…it's that guy there!”

Nick smiled and introduced McVicker, who put out his hand at once. “Glad to meet you, mate.” He nodded, a smile on his battered lips. “I didn't keep the fifty bucks for staying the three rounds.”

“What is this, Nick?” Owen asked.

“Why, I'm going to make you rich, Kid.” Nick grinned, slapping Owen on the back. “Let's go get some steaks and we'll talk about it.”

An hour later, the five of them were sitting around a table in the town's best and only restaurant. Nick had talked steadily, outlining his plan to make a professional out of Owen.

“I'm no professional, Nick,” Owen smiled. He nodded at the fighter, adding, “Ask
him
, he can tell you. He'd have beaten my brains out if the bout had gone on much longer.”

McVicker had said little throughout the meal, applying himself to his food while Nick talked. Now he looked across the table at Owen and shook his head. “That ain't exactly right, mate,” he remarked in his gravelly voice. “I expect I might have beat you in a longer fight…but I can beat most fighters. Not braggin', but even if I'm past my peak, there ain't ten men fightin' today I couldn't take.” He paused to pour his tea into his saucer, sipped it noisily, then said, “I don't usually tell young fellows to take up boxing. It's a hard life, and not many make any money at it. But I got to say, that with the right training, you'd be a contender, young fellow. You got the speed, you can take a punch, you can hit like a mule…and you're smart.”