The crowd went completely silent in the next moment as a fat bald man in a bright orange jacket stepped into the ring. The bald man shouted and turned slowly so every ear could hear.
“This here’s a fight to the finish, whether it’s two rounds or twenty. I’d like it to be twenty,” he shouted to the laughing crowd. “Once a man is down, the othern can’t hit or kick him. Corky Hallman is our official and will count the ten seconds off for a knockout if a man is on the ground. He’ll be watching for low blows and any cheating. Chambliss fights don’t have any use for cheaters!”
The crowd erupted in screams, and Chambliss motioned for them to quiet down. “Padino here works at the cloth mill and recently had his right hand burned pretty bad. He’s asked to wear wraps around the knuckles and palms of that hand. Thompson has agreed to allow him to do so and will wear them himself.”
While Chambliss spoke, encouraging those who hadn’t placed a bet to do so, Hallman had both fighters at his side, talking to each and examining the hands that were wrapped. Thompson and Padino were staring at each other, and Alexander recognized the intense gaze and complete stillness of Thompson, as if the man were concentrating all his energies into the calm look he wore for his opponent.
The fighters went to opposite corners. Several men huddled around Padino, mimicking punches and defenses as he watched and nodded. Thompson stood quietly beside a tall, thin man in rolled-up shirtsleeves, a vest, and a flat cap. They did not speak at all. Thompson rolled his head once and came flying to the middle of the ring on the sound of a bell ringing. His fists flew in a combination starting with a right hand to his opponent’s jaw followed by an undercut from his left. Padino’s head bounced back, forward, and then to the side. Thompson leaned close for three bruising punches to Padino’s middle. The crowd erupted in deafening cheers.
Padino staggered back a step and shook his head but moved back toward Thompson with purpose and struck with his left fist. Thompson easily blocked the punch with his right arm and clobbered Padino from the left, sending him reeling around in a circle. Thompson waited, bouncing on his toes, his clenched fists near his chin. The crowd was chanting Thompson’s name.
“He’s the best, our James,” the man beside Alexander shouted. “Even if this Padino lands a fist, Thompson can take a beating. I’ve seen him take punch after punch and still stay on his feet. He went twenty-two rounds once.”
“He’s the champ all right,” another said.
But just as Alexander focused again on the bout, Padino landed a solid punch to Thompson’s chin. His head snapped back, and even from Alex’s perspective he could see it was a brutal blow, sending Thompson back against the ropes. Before Thompson could get his hands in front of his face, Padino swung again, a great roundhouse punch, causing blood to shoot four feet from Thompson’s mouth and sending him to his knees. The tall, thin man from Thompson’s corner was screaming at Hallman, although Alexander couldn’t hear what he said. He was gesturing wildly to Padino’s fists. Thompson pulled himself up, spitting blood and shaking his head, then dropping his hands to his sides and focusing on Padino. He roared his intent from a mouth filled with blood-covered teeth, and the crowd went wild.
Thompson flew at Padino, his fists flying faster than Alexander could follow, and Padino was soon on his heels, covering his face. Thompson backed off one step, waiting for an opening to pummel his opponent again, and Padino took a wild swing. Alexander didn’t know if Thompson’s reactions were slowed because he was tired or if he couldn’t see or if he just had not recovered from Padino’s punches, but he didn’t step away or cover his face in time, and Padino landed a closed fist on Thompson’s throat. Thompson dropped to his knees, both hands on his neck.
“Unfair!” the man beside Alexander shouted. “You can’t hit a man in the throat!”
Others were shouting and gesturing, and the two men who’d thrown the drunk out the door were suddenly in the ring, pushing back spectators from climbing over or under the ropes. The place was moments from a full-fledged riot when a young boy hurled himself past the two men to kneel on the floor beside Thompson. He could barely believe his eyes when the boy’s hat fell from his head and long auburn hair tumbled down. Elspeth Thompson! Dear God!
Alexander couldn’t get past the men on his left or right without many of them filing out of their seats. He took a glance back to where the other person had stood with Elspeth and knew it was Kirsty, now elbowing her way toward the ring. And then he noticed the two men behind Kirsty, their eyes focused on her. One of them had been in Schmitt’s office that day, and he and the other man were pushing others aside to follow her. Schmitt was having them followed!
Alexander shoved men aside and climbed over and around them to their shouts of annoyance. He pushed his way through the mob and slipped into the ring, where the tall, thin man was defending himself against the three men from Padino’s corner.
“He’s got weights in his wraps, Hallman,” the man shouted and threw a punch at one of the men. Alexander put his back to the tall man’s and swung and connected with the soft stomach of one of Padino’s handlers.
“Miss Thompson!” he shouted. “Miss Thompson!”
She looked up with startled recognition. “Mr. Pendergast! Whatever are you doing here? You’ll be hurt!”
“How is your brother?” Alexander asked as a punch landed on his shoulder and he threw a solid one back.
The tall, thin man shouted over his shoulder as he held another man flush against him, his arm around the man’s neck. “What are your sisters doing here, James? And who are you?” he shouted at Alexander.
“A friend of the Misses Thompson. How are we going to get them all out of here?” he shouted back.
“James! James! Can you walk?”
“He’s nodding yes,” Kirsty shouted.
“You take James. I’ll take his sisters. I should be able to nearly carry them both. Elspeth! Get James on his feet! I’m MacAvoy.”
“Pendergast,” Alexander said.
MacAvoy grabbed a coat lying on the floor, threw it over Thompson’s shoulders, and wrapped a long arm around each of the Thompson sisters. “Make way! Make way!” he shouted. “James Thompson’s coming through!”
Alexander got Thompson’s arm around his shoulders and put his arm around the man’s waist. There was still blood dripping on his chest, and his nose didn’t seem to be the right place. He was holding his neck and gasping for breath.
“Come on! We’ve got to stay close to your sisters,” Alexander shouted. “Can you walk?”
Thompson nodded and leaned heavily on Alex’s shoulder. He pushed and shoved and pulled the weakened man toward the door, close behind MacAvoy and the Thompson sisters. They burst through the door into the cool night air.
“Where are we going?” Alexander asked.
“Why are those two men following us?” Kirsty said, glancing over her shoulder.
“We’re going home. James needs to be in his own bed,” Elspeth said.
MacAvoy took Thompson from Alexander’s arms and dragged him to a wagon. They pushed and pulled and shoved until he was lying on his back in the bed of the conveyance.