Champion of the World (34 page)

“I'm not following you.”

“It's possible,” Pepper said, “that maybe I'm not as much in their pocket as you think.”

“Are you saying, if I refused to go along with this plan, that you'd back my play?”

Pepper thought about that. Was that what he meant? He decided that it was. “We'd have to keep it between us,” he said.

He could see Taft turning it over in his mind. A minute ago he'd been bursting at the seams to get to New York and wrestle Lesko, but now he seemed grim, unsure what to say. “What do you think would happen to us if we crossed those Chicago boys?” he said after a second.

“Kill us, probably,” Pepper said. “But I did their bidding once before and it feels about the same.”

“Is there more money in it?” Taft asked. “For taking the dive?”

“Is that all you care about?” he said. “The money?”

“Yes,” Taft said, like that was a stupid question, “that's all I care about. Were you even listening back there? When our wives sat around the dinner table talking about the future?”

“But if you won,” Pepper said, “they'd crawl back to you with their hats in their hands.”

“Don't be a fool,” Taft said. “It's Joe Stecher all over again, except this time they'd do worse than prison. They could murder me and say I fell out of bed. People would laugh about it over their morning papers.”

“I think it'd be worth it just to see the looks on their faces,” he said. “A second ago you were—”

“That was before,” Taft snapped, hanging the last word out there loud and long, putting all his hurt into it. “Before I knew this whole thing has all been a joke on me.”

“You're coming into this match in great shape,” Pepper said, suddenly desperate to make him see. “If I had to guess, I'd wager Lesko isn't exactly killing himself in training, thinking he's going to have an easy night. That you're just going to go out there and lie down for him. We could do this. We could pull it off.”

“You don't get it,” Taft said. “Even when I win, I don't get to win. It's the story of my life: white folks messing with me.”

He took one wide step, turning on his skis. He almost fell but didn't, and then was moving away, his shoulders hunched and his head down as he drove his legs in front of him. Pepper turned and went after him, the cold creeping under his jacket. A couple of times he called Taft's name but couldn't tell if the big man heard him. He was frustrated and angry and had to remind himself not to pull a shoulder out of joint from hacking at the ground with his poles.

They had gone a half mile back toward the hunting camp before they started worrying about the girls. Pepper was watching the snow for tracks but saw none. Moira and Carol Jean had been padding along in the grooves laid by Pepper's and Taft's skis, so it was hard to find signs of them. Taft pulled up short and pushed his stocking cap a little higher on his forehead.

“We should have found them by now,” he said.

“Maybe they turned around,” Pepper said, “went back to the cabin.”

It felt strange to be talking to him about other things, as if their conversation farther up the road hadn't happened at all. For now, he put it out of his mind, telling himself there was still time to have everything out. The idea that Taft could want to beat Strangler Lesko one minute and then back down from it the next confused and
upset him. He pushed it out of his mind as they kicked back up the road, hurrying now to make it back to the hunting camp.

Fresh snow began to fall as they sailed under the main gate. Up the hill the cabin was dark and quiet, but they skied right up the porch and called out for Moira and Carol Jean, just to make sure. Getting no answer, they turned back, Pepper starting to feel a bit of panic now that it was getting late, the temperature really dropping, small, hard snowflakes buzzing around him.

He and Taft were both huffing and puffing, Pepper's thighs burning, twenty minutes out of the camp again before they noticed the spot where a single line of tracks slipped off the road and onto a small game trail. The angle made it so they hadn't noticed it from the other direction, but now Pepper and Taft plunged down the trail, the going much tougher compared to the flat grade of the road. In another ten minutes they found them, coming up the trail single file, struggling through the snow in boots but no skis, both of them shivering and matted with snow. Carol Jean had fallen and broken a ski, she said, and they'd tried to turn back. Without their skis, though, they kept sinking up to their knees in the powder.

“What were you doing off the road in the first place?” Pepper said. His worry had turned to irritation now that they'd found them. He was worn-out and cold, ready for rest.

“You left us,” Moira said. “We thought we'd try to catch you with a shortcut.”

Snow clung to the strands of hair that stuck out of her hat. She strode past Pepper's offered hand, wading through the snow back up a short rise to the road.

“What about the skis?” Carol Jean asked.

“Don't worry about that,” Taft said, taking her by the elbow. “We'll come down and get them tomorrow.”

They struggled back to the road—moving slowly now, with
Pepper and Taft each carrying their skis slung over one shoulder—and hadn't gone far when headlights appeared behind them. It was Fritz and the others returning from town. There wasn't room in the car for all of them, but Carol Jean and Moira climbed in the back, collapsing onto the laps of Taft's training partners. The wrestlers didn't seem to mind.

“You all look like you've made a night of it,” said Fritz from the driver's seat, eyeing the skis like he wanted to know where they came from.

Pepper thought of mentioning he could say the same of them, all the men except James Eddy looking drunk and stinking of cigars. The car moved slowly through the snow ahead of them and Pepper and Taft took a few minutes to get their skis back on before they started out again. There was no joy in it for them now, and they arrived back at the camp after everyone else had gone inside. His heart dropped as he tried the door to the dark cabin and found it locked. He thought about knocking but couldn't bring himself to do it with Taft standing there watching. Except when he turned around, Taft was already halfway up the hill. He was still on his skis, head down, arms pumping, a small, lonely figure slowly working his way back toward the garage.

T
he day before they left for New York, Fritz brought a group of reporters to the hunting camp to have a look at Taft. Everyone told him this was a terrible idea, but he wouldn't listen. Moira had noticed a change in him since they'd gotten the contracts signed for the match with Strangler Lesko. He was jollier now, but more like the hardheaded young man she remembered from their Chicago years: the hardscrabble miner's son who had come from nothing and had been so sure of his own talents. No one could tell him a thing. He informed them of his plan over a dinner he'd called at the lodge, and afterward he and Pepper argued about it behind the locked door of his office. Moira could hear the muffled sounds of their voices all the way from downstairs. When they emerged, both men were sweaty and red-faced but Fritz held on to a small smile that told her he wouldn't be swayed.

A cold morning a week later, she watched from the window of the cabin as they arrived: four husky men piling out of a car with typewriter boxes knocking against their knees. The wide-open wilderness seemed to unnerve the reporters and they clustered around the car, smoking and stretching, pulling their overcoats tighter against the wind. Fritz had driven them from the train station and he stood making dramatic gestures with his hands as he pointed out
landmarks. All at once their eyes fell on the road. One of them said something and they all flipped out skinny notebooks. Half a minute later Taft and Pepper jogged through the main gate wearing undershirts and long pants. They didn't acknowledge the reporters, but Pepper turned his head and saw Moira in the window of the cabin. He waved to her as they trotted up the path toward the garage. Once they were gone, one of the reporters said something out the side of his mouth and they all laughed, turning away from the wind like a gaggle of nervous geese.

Moira had barely talked to Pepper since their Thanksgiving ski trip. At least once a day he walked up from the garage to knock on the door and ask to be let in. When he did, Moira would light a cigarette and sit down at the small table, concentrating on being very still. A couple of times she thought he was going to break the door down, and even more often she had to shush the tiny voice inside herself telling her to open it. The times they had been to dinner in the lodge they sat stiffly across from each other and made polite conversation, passing the potatoes and all that. When it was over, she went back to the cabin and he walked with Taft up to the garage.

Tonight, though, would be different. Fritz had called another dinner in the dining hall, this time so they could all put their best faces on for the reporters. They would eat and laugh and then Pepper would stay with her in the cabin. All one big happy family. The newspapermen would travel with them on the train to New York, Fritz said, and added with special emphasis that he hoped Taft would take the time to show them what kind of man he really was.

They would all grin and slap each other on the back and pretend everything was aces. They all had their marching orders to make Taft look like as dangerous an opponent for Stanislaw Lesko as possible, even though the truth was Taft would not win. It was as dishonest as anything Moira had done for Boyd Markham's traveling
carnival. In one form or another she had been a swindler her entire life, but this scheme bothered her more than most. It stunk of desperation, the smell hanging on Taft and Fritz and even Pepper. It made her feel caught up in a whirlpool of things beyond her control. It had been that way for months and now she told herself it couldn't go on forever. She wouldn't allow it.

An hour later she put on her coat and wandered up the path to the garage, where she slipped through the open doorway and stood in the shadows against a back wall. On the mat, Taft was locked up with the big mustachioed foreigner called Lundin. They were both huffing and puffing, but it was clear even to her that Lundin was letting Taft push him around a bit. The reporters were there, hardly watching. They stood close to Pepper at the side of the mat, chuckling and scribbling the things he said in their notebooks.

“Van Dean,” said a reporter with rectangular glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “What do you think the Negro's chances really are against Lesko?”

“Of killing him?” Pepper said. “I'd say about fifty-fifty.”

The reporters laughed and glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes. He had always been good at the talking part of it. He stood with his arms folded, lip pooching with tobacco, and Moira felt a tingle of pride knowing he was still a star to them. Quickly she swallowed it down, and just as she did, he looked over and saw her. His smiled flickered for a moment, and he shot her a sly wink.

“You can't be serious,” a second reporter said. He had liver spots running around the crown of his head.

“Serious as smallpox,” Pepper said. “Soon as we get to New York, I'm putting a big bet down on Taft. Any man that wants to turn a good buck will do the same.”

The reporters shifted on their feet. The youngest, who was also the fattest, said: “Three years in the sneezer is a long time. Do you worry about ring rust?”

“I might,” Pepper said, “if we had a tougher opponent. But Hackenschmidt is retired and Frank Gotch is dead.”

The reporters laughed again. “Which part of Lesko's game do you think will give your man the most trouble?” asked the fourth.

“Slow-footedness,” Pepper said. “Up here we're used to a slightly more challenging tempo. I suppose it might take Taft a few minutes to adjust to Lesko's snail's pace.”

“What do you think of the champion's insistence on a single fall?” the first reporter asked. “He says he wants to spend as little time in the ring with the Negro as possible.”

“It tells me he knows he'll be lucky to best Garfield Taft once,” Pepper said, “let alone two out of three.”

The reporters nodded in unison and scribbled on their pads. Out on the mat, Taft picked Lundin's ankle, and the big European toppled over in a heap. The noise momentarily distracted the men, and Moira could tell Pepper wanted to use the break to slip away to her. A reporter, though, caught his arm and whispered a question, hoping to get something exclusive. Before Pepper could free himself from having to answer, she walked back out into the weather.

T
hat night she put on one of the dresses Fritz had bought her on their first day in camp and went up the hill. Eleanor had the dining room looking bright and clean, with a great roaring fire giving everything a cozy glow. Pepper and Taft had not yet arrived. To one side of the room, within easy reach of the bar setup, the reporters had Fritz surrounded. He was telling them fish tales, a grin plastered across his fleshy face. Every few minutes a burst of laughter floated up from the crowd. James Eddy was hovering at the edges of the
circle, his handkerchief clutched in one hand. Each time she saw him, Moira expected Eddy to walk over to her and confront her about taking the papers from his room. Now, though, she saw nothing in his eyes, no suspicion or malice, just boredom as he watched Eleanor get things arranged. Taft's training partners were there, too, huddled at one end of the table, their own whiskey bottle set out between them like a hitching post.

Moira didn't see Carol Jean until she was clutching her elbow and taking up a post on the wall next to her. “I hate these things,” Carol Jean said. “They drive me to drink.”

“They drive everyone to drink from the looks at it,” Moira said.

The men's voices were already too loud for the hour. Fritz's forehead was shining red and when he laughed—brow up, eyes pinched shut—it sounded like a lion roaring. A couple of the reporters were also sweaty and loose inside their jackets. She was about to ask Carol Jean where Mr. Taft was when she saw him gliding into the room picture-perfect in a windowpane suit and unadventurous dark tie. He showed off his brilliant smile when he noticed the two women standing together, and she had to admit he looked the part. Taft's chest was as wide and flat as a suit of armor and he moved with easy confidence, as though acutely aware of how small he made them all look. As he came over to them, she picked up a slack expression in his face.

Carol Jean fit her arm in his. “Garfield,” she said. “You remember Mrs. Van Dean.”

Moira was about to say of course they remembered each other when Taft reached out and took her hand, blinking a bit more than necessary: “I sure do,” he said, giving her wrist a peck. “How do you do?”

As she took her hand back he nodded as if waiting for her to take the lead. It had been a couple weeks since she'd spoken to him. His
eyes were deep and empty, his pupils crazy black holes, one of them a little bit larger than the other. A muscle twitched in his jaw and he touched his face with the tips of his fingers. She realized he had no idea who she was.

“Tell Mrs. Van Dean how well training has been going,” Carol Jean said, “and what a wonderful job her husband, Mr. Van Dean, has been doing getting you prepared.”

“Absolutely,” Taft said. “It's going famously.” The two of them wavering on their feet, moving together as dance partners.

“I'm sorry,” Moira said. “I suddenly feel driven to drink.”

She was pouring herself a stiff one when Fritz pressed his bulk against her. He'd wormed free of the reporters and made his way over without her noticing. “Where is he?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down and failing at it. She glanced over at the throng of reporters, but they were distracted now by the giant bison head mounted on the opposite wall. One of them was dragging a chair over in an effort to climb up and pet the beast's mane.

“Not a clue,” she said. “I haven't been keeping tabs recently.”

“Find him,” Fritz said. “I'm drowning here.”

Moira scowled. “Send one of your lapdogs,” she said. “They seem at loose ends.”

The wrestlers had joined in the examination of the buffalo just as the youngest reporter climbed up on the chair. Reaching up to feel the animal's bulbous snout, he lost his balance and fell into their arms. Two of the wrestlers cradled him as easily as if he were a baby, swinging him back onto his feet, red-faced and laughing. Fritz leaned even closer to her.

“You're his
wife,
for Christ's sake,” he said. “Go get him and bring him up here to do his goddamn job.”

Moira pulled a quick curtsy. “Well, Freddy, since you put it so politely.”

She had gotten to the foyer when she heard a great crash
and turned back to see the bison head rolling haphazardly on the floor, the reporters and wrestlers scattering away like ants in the rain.

P
epper was sitting on the edge of the wrestling mat, staring out the open doors, steadily adding to a great lake of tobacco spit between his feet. When he heard her footsteps he turned and grinned, grits of it speckling his teeth.

“My estranged wife,” he announced, too loudly.

“Dear God,” she said, stepping over the pool and sitting down next to him. “Tell me you're not already as drunk as the rest.”