The amount and the method that had been employed to arrive at it left Frederick speechless. He gave a helpless shrug. Kliever grunted. “All right, then.” He released his grip. The shopkeeper’s hand slithered off the counter, out of sight. “Get the money,” growled Kliever.
Without saying another word the man retreated into a back room. Moments later he returned with a fistful of notes. As Frederick watched the shopkeeper deal the money onto the countertop, his shock was mutely shuffled away to some distant corner of his consciousness.
He understood what this was.
It was his chance.
Soon afterward Frederick and Kliever climbed back onto the buggy. Rather than returning across the bridge, however, Kliever pointed the horse west.
“We’re not going home?” said Frederick.
Kliever looked at him. “Do you think I’d drive all this way just to pawn your medal?”
“I have no idea,” admitted Frederick.
“Where we’re going, you need capital to invest,” explained Kliever. “Now you have it.”
“Where are we going, then?”
“You’ll see.”
Frederick sat back and tried not to think about what Jette would say. The banknotes in his pocket crinkled with possibility, but with each whisper of promise came an echo of apprehension.
They headed toward the Ozark Mountains. By late afternoon Kliever had still given no explanation as to where they were going. Finally he pulled the horse off the main road onto a gravel path that they followed for several miles. Despite the remoteness of the location, they suddenly found themselves surrounded by people. Men, ill-shaven and dressed in clothes dirtied by the day’s labor, were engaged in animated debate, all headed in the same direction. Kliever pulled his hat down over his eyes and directed the horse past the ambling crowds.
They arrived in a clearing in which a mass of people had already assembled. The focus of activity was centered beneath the boughs of an enormous oak tree, where two squares had been marked out by rope and wooden stakes, one inside the other. Men were exchanging fistfuls of money for hastily scribbled notes. Most of the crowd were laborers, but Frederick also saw the uniforms of professional men. There were women there, too, and he had lived long enough in a big city to recognize what sort of women they were. He looked at Kliever. “What sort of event brings whores and lawyers out into the middle of the countryside?”
“The manly art,” answered Kliever. He put up his fists and threw a mock punch.
“A
prize fight
?”
“With excellent odds.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t worry. I know the right man. Come on.”
Frederick followed Kliever through the crowd. Perched high up in the branches of nearby trees, men gazed down at the ring, waiting for the fight to begin.
“They’ll have the best view,” said Frederick, pointing up.
“They’re not up there to watch the fight,” said Kliever. “They’re keeping a lookout for the police.” He saw Frederick’s expression. “When men fight each other these days, they’re supposed to wear gloves,” he explained.
“This is illegal?”
“In theory.” Kliever looked around him. “But there are several policemen here, I’m sure. They enjoy a good scrap better than most.” He walked through the crowd toward a small, rat-like man in a tweed suit, who was perspiring freely in the warmth of the evening. An ugly smile appeared on his face as he saw Kliever approach.
“Ah, Mr. Kliever,” he said. “You’ll have your usual wager, I presume? Today I can offer you a hundred to forty.” His little eyes glinted. “
Very
generous, you’ll agree.”
Kliever grunted and produced his own bundle of notes. The bookmaker quickly counted the money and wrote him a receipt. He turned his attention to Frederick.
“And you, sir?” he asked. “Will you have the same?”
Frederick’s fingers curled protectively around the money in his pocket and he silently cursed his stupidity. An unlawful bet! He shook his head. “I am sorry,” he said stiffly. “I cannot wager my money. I do not even know who is fighting.”
The man laughed. “You’re unsure who to back?” he chuckled. “Mr. Kliever, who would you suggest?”
Kliever looked away for a moment, his eyes searching for the boxing ring beneath the oak tree. Then he turned back to Frederick and said, “Me.”
M
oments later Frederick was following Kliever toward the ring, clutching the bookmaker’s receipt. He had been so surprised that he handed over all his money without another word of protest.
“This lad today is a local boy, very popular,” Kliever was saying as he marched ahead. “Butcher’s apprentice. He’s strong and quick, but young. He’s not done much fighting yet. Still learning.” There was an unfamiliar steel in his voice. “I’ll teach him a thing or two.”
They arrived at the outer rope of the boxing ring, which was patrolled by a team of burly-looking men. All around them the crowd was raucous, fired up by excitement and the afternoon heat. Kliever took off his hat and threw it over the ropes. When it landed on the beaten-down grass in the inner ring, the crowd erupted, a huge roar in their throats.
Kliever stepped through the ropes and pulled off his shirt. The cries of the men around him were so loaded with venom and hostility that for a moment Frederick forgot about the money that he would never see again; instead he began to fear for his friend’s life. Kliever looked calmly at the baying pack beyond the outer ropes. He produced a red and yellow handkerchief from his pocket and tied it to a corner stake of the inner ring. A moment later, a second hat landed in the ring. The crowd’s attention quickly shifted from Kliever to the newcomer, who was climbing through the ropes, already stripped to the waist. The new arrival was a massive hulk of humanity, a sculpture of rippling muscle and menace. His body seemed designed for violence. His hands were the size of ham hocks. He pulled out his own handkerchief to delirious cries of approval. Kliever watched impassively as his opponent tied his colors to the opposite corner stake.
A third man stepped into the ring. He paraded around the perimeter with his hands in the air until the crowd had subsided into a restless silence.
“Good people,” he cried, “there is nothing finer than the spectacle of two men fighting a bare-knuckled combat.” The crowd murmured its approval. The man held up an imperious finger. “Now, mark my words. There are those among us who believe that they know best how we Americans should comport ourselves. There are those among us who believe that it is their duty to decide what is right and what is wrong, what is good and what is not. There are those among us who seek to eliminate freedoms that are rightfully ours. I speak of those interfering busybodies who malinger in our state’s legislative chambers.” At this there was a chorus of enthusiastic booing. “As you know,” continued the man, his voice rising, “our Congress, which represents no man
I
know, has outlawed this, our most cherished sport.” The jeers grew louder. “Without ever seeing a punch thrown, the politicians
have banned our prize ring
,” shouted the man. “Those ignorant idiots have made criminals out of you and me. But we are here. And to that, these precious dandies of so many useless words have
no response
.”
The man moved to the center of the ring and stretched his arms out toward the corners where the two fighters stood. “Tonight we witness the glorious pugilistic traditions of these United States of America, pitted against the low cunning and devilish subterfuge that infests the prize ring on foreign shores.” The man turned toward Kliever with a dramatic sneer. “Showing colors of red and yellow, known for his slippery German guile—the
Hun
.”
The crowd howled its disapproval. Kliever stood motionless in his corner, listening impassively to the crescendo of hate. Frederick felt his skin crawl. The announcer allowed the crowd to vent its collective spleen before going on. “Against him, showing the colors of our hometown, a new young master of the fistic arts, our very own Butcher Boy, the still undefeated James McCready.” Kliever’s opponent raised his fists in salute, acknowledging the loud applause.
“We are not interested here in the prettified rules of engagement of that English fop, the Marquis of Queensberry,” the announcer continued. “
This
fight shall be conducted in accordance with the London Prize Ring rules of 1838, to wit: no head-butting, eye-gouging, hair-pulling, or neck-throttling. The fighters have agreed that Mr. Abe Vanderzee will act as referee.” The man took off his hat. “And now I give you—
the Butcher Boy and the Hun
.” He clambered out of the inner ring, and Kliever and McCready approached the grassy center of the square. They shook hands amid a cacophony of booing and cheering. The referee, who was watching from the safety of the ropes, called for the contest to begin.
Frederick could barely bring himself to watch. The Butcher Boy came out with his huge fists swinging, two ferocious cyclones of menace. For the first few rounds Kliever weaved and bobbed, dodging the younger man’s attacks with surprising agility. McCready would just need to land one square punch for the fight to be over. But as each round ended without a meaningful blow being landed, the Butcher Boy and his followers began to get restless. Spurred on by the crowd, McCready continued to attack Kliever, but his fists scythed through the air, chasing shadows. As his opponent stepped in close, Kliever began to pick off telling blows as McCready left his upper body undefended. Round after round, Kliever’s punches were beginning to make themselves felt. The sustained ferocity of his initial offensive had exhausted the Butcher Boy. The crowd watched in sullen dejection as Kliever began to assert his superiority. In the seventeenth round his right fist caught McCready on the cheek, an inch below the eye, and opened a jagged wound. Blood began to pour down the young man’s face and onto his chest. His left eye soon swelled into a gruesome blue-black envelope of mottled flesh. Dazed by the pain, the Butcher Boy began to bellow a forlorn lament like a stricken bull. His cries echoed across the field as he charged blindly at Kliever. The crowd watched in silence as Kliever’s fists exacted their due. McCready staggered around the ring, blinded by his own blood. In between rounds his seconds pleaded with him to give up, but he refused, rising unsteadily to take more punishment. After ninety minutes of fighting, Kliever had begun to knock his opponent down at will, but on each occasion the Butcher Boy hauled himself back to his feet, refusing to concede defeat in front of his home crowd. Many in the audience, though, had seen enough. Men began to leave the field, shaking their heads.
Finally the Butcher Boy’s seconds gave up talking to their man. Instead they moved around the ring and begged Kliever to finish the fight quickly. Kliever’s face remained expressionless. The following round, he swiftly sidestepped McCready’s next lumbering charge and caught the young man in a headlock. Then, with a succession of slow, deliberate blows, Kliever calmly pulverized his opponent’s undefended face into a ghoulish hollow of crushed bone and decimated cartilage. Finally he released his grip and the body of the Butcher Boy fell to the grass. The referee did not need to conduct a formal count. He climbed into the ring and raised the arm of the victor into the air. It was only when Frederick saw the dark blood glistening on Kliever’s knuckles that he remembered that he had won his bet.
O
n the journey back to Beatrice, Kliever explained how the system worked.
“I travel all over the state, and sometimes beyond,” he said. “The fights are arranged by local bookmakers. The trick is to put forward a local man and talk up his prospects. People always want the next champion to be from their hometown. Once the whole place is chattering about his chances, the bookies can offer short odds on his winning, but they’ll still have enough takers to make it worth their while.”
“Then you turn up,” said Frederick.
Kliever nodded. “They find a better fighter from out of town, someone that nobody knows. They offer long odds on him, so nobody is tempted to back him. When the local hero loses, they make a fortune.”
“But
you
bet on yourself.”
Kliever nodded. “Sometimes they offer to pay me a flat fee, but I prefer it this way. They give me generous odds. They can afford to.”
The two men were silent for a while.
“I was scared,” admitted Frederick.
“By the fight?”
“And the crowd.”
“Oh, they’re harmless enough. Men like to watch other men fight, that’s all.”
They stopped again in Jefferson City to redeem Jette’s medal. That night, while his wife slept, Frederick returned it to its hiding place at the back of the chest of drawers. Then he added a fat roll of banknotes to the jar that lay hidden beneath the bedroom floorboard.
Frederick began to accompany Kliever to all his fights. Each time he bet larger amounts, taking whatever odds he was offered. Kliever continued to win. Before long he needed a second jar. Prizefights continued until one of the fighters was knocked unconscious or conceded defeat. Kliever could have won most of his fights in a matter of minutes, but the bookmakers wanted the contests to go on for at least an hour. Too obvious a mismatch would have been bad for business; they wanted the punters to believe that their man had stood a chance. And so Kliever would play with his unsuspecting victims like a cat toying with a mouse, until he decided to demolish them. Frederick was unnerved by the focused calm that descended on Kliever as he smashed his opponents into oblivion. He once ended a bout with a shower of blows of such brutality that his opponent was still lying where he had fallen an hour after the fight. A worried crowd surrounded the man’s unmoving body as Kliever and Frederick climbed back into their buggy. Kliever had driven off without a backward glance. The journey home was made in silence.
Every dollar Frederick made was stained with the blood of the fighters who had been duped into climbing into the ring with Johann Kliever, blinded by false promises of victory and fame. But so fierce was my grandfather’s desire to forge his own future that he learned to turn away from the gruesome cost of his good fortune—the beaten faces, ruptured organs, and crushed limbs of the defeated.