In the canyons of Wall Street, I pushed a handkerchief across my forehead, soaked the rag with sweat, and pounded the back alley iron door. I was two doors away from the Morgan Building, but everyone had to enter through a back alley, descend twenty steps, ignore the dirt and poor lighting, and then wait.
Abruptly, the metal eye slot slid open. All I could see was darkness. The man behind the door could identify me, but my eyesight wasn't good enough to see anything other than the outline of his shaved, muscular head, which squat on his massive torso like a fire hydrant rooted in the sidewalk.
"What?" he said.
ओह! यह छवि हमारे सामग्री दिशानिर्देशों का पालन नहीं करती है। प्रकाशन जारी रखने के लिए, कृपया इसे हटा दें या कोई भिन्न छवि अपलोड करें।
"You're a flapper's dapper," I said.
That was the code phrase. The guy I only knew as Reuben let me in.
"That's a sawbuck," Reuben said.
In the darkness, I reached in my pocket for ten dollars.
"You want to get hit in the head?" Reuben asked.
"Yeah. And talk to York."
"Well, maybe he doesn't want to talk to you." Reuben led me toward the boxing rings.
The corridor led to an open space the size of several basketball gymnasiums. Four boxing rings were at the center, and three pairs of fighters were going at it. Surrounding each were four bleachers, each eight steps tall. And ringing that were men lifting barbells, climbing ropes, or punching bags. And even farther away: wrestling mats.
After I changed clothes in the locker room, I went to see Alvin York. York was well-built, about thirty-five, and his red hair still bristled in a military cut. He gestured that he'd catch up with me after he was finished advising a man I'd met once, a veteran named Creed. Shrugging, I put on my gloves and got into the ring. Dempsey was waiting for me.
I signed. Dempsey was a big bastard, and he'd take me for a ride if I wasn't careful. I'm a big man—6'2", close to 200 pounds, and still all muscle. Dempsey, however, was 6'5", 250 pounds, and fast.
Just as I was raising my gloved hands to signal that he should go easy on me, someone rang the bell, and Dempsey charged. All I saw was his massive arm swinging for my face—
I ducked, but his other meaty fist was upper-cutting for my nose. I swerved, sprang backward, clumsily tripping over my feet, and hit against the ropes. Good God, I thought. Somehow, Dempsey had gotten a lot faster than last week. Last week, we'd gone five rounds before he landed one solid punch.
"You just gonna let him hit you?" someone asked me.
I glanced back. York and his biographer were standing on the other side of the rope. York's red hair blazed off of his head. Losers upset him. His biographer, in contrast, looked ready to upchuck with fright.
