The Gamble (Bareknuckle) Page 2

  “I know how to strike and how to defend myself. What more is there to learn?” Leung asked.

  Uncle Tso reached for a wet towel. “As I said, patience.”

  Leung scowled. “Does that work with the fan-tan man at your gambling places?”

  “Gambling is skill and luck,” Tso said. “Fighting is skill, luck, and timing. Soon, both of us will know when the time is right to fight, and within the fight, when it is time to win.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Who do you think is going to win?” Sean asked Leung.

  For the third night in a row, they watched the fights at the Woodrat from a crack in the floor. Because it was Saturday, three fights were scheduled. Sean’s father won his match, much to the displeasure of the crowd. The onlookers yelled and threw things into the fighters’ circle after he dispatched his foe, another Irishman, in two rounds.

  Leung knew he could beat any of them. Except for Sean’s father, most of these men fought without skill, just brute strength. Most just used their knuckles to strike, ignoring the power of the palm blow.

  Before the next battle started, a man cleared onlookers off the painted line that marked the fighters’ circle, then stood between the fighters.

  “That’s Oakley,” Sean explained. “Once a fighter is knocked down, he’s got to get up before Oakley counts to ten. If not, then the fight’s over.”

  Leung scratched his forehead. While he still wore the hat to cross over from Mott Street, he took it off once he and Sean were above the Woodrat. “Why?”

  “Why what?” This was the first night Leung had dared to ask questions.

  “Why ten?”

  “Because those are the rules.”

  Leung knew the word, but it didn’t make any sense to him. Fighting didn’t have rules. When men fought for real, they fought to the death. When men fought for sport, they battled until one could fight no more. No rules were needed in the martial arts; there was honor instead.

  “Although I heard there are some other rules out there,” Sean said. “Some places, they make the fighters wear gloves. Gloves!”

  Sean laughed. Leung wasn’t sure why, but he laughed along with him.

  “At a Woodrat fight, you can’t hit a guy when he’s down or pull his hair,” Sean explained. “It’s not just about protecting the fighters. The crowd too. Nobody wants to pay to see a dirty fight.”

  “Pay?”

  “People pay money to see the fights. The fighters get some, and Lew Mayflower, the guy who runs the Woodrat, gets more. That’s what my pops says. But the people who make the real money are the gamblers. You get odds and pick a winner.”

  Leung asked more questions about things he’d seen but not understood. The more Sean talked, the more confused Leung became.

  “So, you want to bet on the next fight?” Sean asked. “I’ll take the kid. How much money you got?”

  Leung shook his head. Other than Uncle Tso, nobody in their neighborhood had money. And Tso either had a lot or very little, depending on his luck that week.

  “If my guy wins, you take me to Chinatown. I hear the food is fine, and I’m starved. If your guy wins—”

  “If my guy wins,” Leung said, “then we fight each other.” Perfect form came not only from practice but from the testing of one’s skills.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Gentlemen, are you ready for the main event?”

  The man’s gravelly voice traveled all the way to Leung’s hiding spot. Leung knew he’d need to watch this next fight even more carefully since, one fight earlier, he’d won his bet. Soon he’d battle Sean. His first time boxing would not be against an enemy but against someone who might become his friend.

  “Who is that?” Leung asked Sean, pointing at the man in the middle of the circle.

  “That’s Mr. Mayflower,” Sean answered.

  The two fighters below looked like brutes, especially the larger man with the handlebar mustache. Tattoos covered the man’s body, including a bald eagle across his shoulders.

  “In this corner, from the Five Points by way of the Emerald Isle, Michael O’Reilly.”

  The crowd booed more than it cheered, just like when Sean’s father had fought.

  “And in this corner, the Warrior from Wall Street, Douglas Truman!” The floor seemed to shake beneath Leung, so loud and long were the cheers for the tattooed, mustached man.

  “Truman’s never lost, but then again, he’s never fought my father,” Sean said. He slapped Leung lightly on the back.

  After Oakley yelled, “Fight!” the battle began. Blows came hard and heavy, mostly Truman’s fists against O’Reilly’s face.

  “It’s a mismatch, but that’s what the crowd wants, so Mayflower gives it to them.”

  “Don’t they want a good fight?” Leung asked. He’d never heard the word mismatch, but he knew the fighters below lacked discipline. Truman was neither snake nor crane. He was like a dragon—so big and strong that he could do whatever he wanted.

  “No,” Sean said.

  “Then what do they want?”

  “Irish blood,” Sean said softly. O’Reilly fell after a haymaker from the tattooed man.

  Leung watched as O’Reilly put up his fists once more to box with Truman. Truman seemed to be smiling. Leung didn’t understand why O’Reilly didn’t try another approach. In Wing Chun, you found a foe’s strength and used it against him. You found his weakness too. Truman was strong but slow. He’d lose to a trained Wing Chun fighter.

  With an uppercut, Truman launched O’Reilly like a cannonball across the Woodrat floor. As O’Reilly crashed down, a roar went up from the crowd.

  “When he wakes up, we’ll learn what kind of man this O’Reilly bloke is,” Sean said.

  “We just saw that,” Leung said.

  Sean put his hand on Leung’s shoulder. “No, we saw what kind of fighter he was. Not very tough or experienced. What he decides to do after the fight tells us more about him.”

  Leung understood the words, but not what Sean meant by them. “Decides to do?”

  Sean grinned. “Let’s see what O’Reilly decides to pick up first. His money or his teeth.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Where is Uncle Tso?” Leung asked. It was the second most important question of the day. Once he found Tso, he’d ask the first: for permission to fight Sean.

  Uncle Nang sipped his tea, shook his head, and pointed south down Mott. North on Mott was were where men worked in laundries or made cigars. South was where they went to gamble.

  Leung had never understood how two brothers could be so different. Nang was smart and steady, while Tso knew fighting and fantan. In fan-tan, a banker emptied a handful of small objects onto a table, then covered them with a bowl. As the banker removed objects from under the bowl, four at a time, Tso and other gamblers wagered how many objects would be left. Like fighting, fan-tan demanded skill and luck. Yet in its way, fan-tan was more dangerous. Gamblers weren’t concerned about honor when settling debts.

  “When will he be back?” Leung asked. Another sip, another head shake from Nang.

  Leung’s father had stood somewhere between his oldest brother, Nang, and his youngest, Tso. He had put his intelligence not toward learning English nor toward gambling games, but only toward Wing Chun.

  “Where have you been? Where did you sneak out to last night?” Nang asked. He didn’t sound angry, only concerned. “We promised your father we’d watch after you.”

  Leung hung his head in shame. He wondered if his father would approve of his urge to fight outside of Chinatown. If Leung’s father had been given a fair chance, Leung knew he could have bested any white man, even a bully like Truman. Leung didn’t want to lie to his uncle, but he feared telling him the truth, so he said nothing. His uncle repeated the question, this time in Chinese, demanding an answer. An honest answer.

  “The Woodrat.” Leung explained about the fights he’d seen and how he wanted to fight. “This would make my father proud. It would honor his memor
y.”

  “I don’t approve. Nothing good can come of it.”

  “I want to prove to them all that we’re not weak.”

  “One man—one boy—doesn’t stand for all of us.”

  Leung stood next to his uncle. He was half the man’s age but at least a foot taller. “I can.”

  “Then look where it got your father,” Uncle Nang said, tears under his words.

  In his best English, hoping to make his uncle proud, Leung explained that Uncle Tso wouldn’t let him fight until his form was perfect. “How will I know when it is time?”

  Uncle Nang didn’t answer. Leung knew that Nang had never watched Leung’s father or Uncle Tso fight. Nang always told them that Wing Chun was a waste of time. Leung’s father would argue back that the martial arts built character as much as they did calluses.

  “There is only one way to know anything, and that is to do it,” Leung said. “Let me fight.”

  “Tso promised your father,” Uncle Nang started.

  “But you’re the elder. Your words matter more,” Leung argued back.

  Uncle Nang rose from the wooden crate on which he sat. “Tso only listens to the fan-tan man saying ‘one more game.’”

  “Then you be my second,” Leung said. He quickly explained some of the rules he’d learned from watching fights and listening to Sean. “If I lose, I won’t ask to fight again.”

  Nang laughed, a broad laugh that Leung had not heard in a long time. “You sound like Tso, making promises that you can’t keep. Just one more game, just one game.”

  “It’s not gambling when you know you’re going to win,” Leung said. He threw a swift front kick, shattering the wood crate that Uncle Nang had been sitting on. “Maybe my form isn’t perfect, but my desire to win is.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Where’s your second?” Sean asked. Sean’s father stood behind him.

  Leung said nothing. He thought Uncle Nang had agreed to be in his corner, but when Leung had left Mott Street in the twilight, Nang was nowhere to be found.

  “Do you still want to do this?” Sean asked. Leung wondered if Sean was asking out of worry for Leung or for his own safety.

  Leung nodded and tossed his hat to the ground. Either Sean or Sean’s father had drawn a chalk circle in vacant area just outside the Five Points. Leung almost got lost more than on his way there, but he made it in time.

  He’d been more afraid of the journey than the fight. He knew that was good sign. Uncle Nang’s absence was not. An hour before leaving, Leung had left a map that Sean had drawn under his uncle’s teacup. Under the map, Leung wrote the Chinese characters for twilight. Just before he started his journey, Leung saw the map had vanished. Was Nang lost?

  “This is my father, Sheamus Murphy,” Sean said.

  Leung bowed, then accepted the older man’s hand.

  “I told my dad you didn’t know all the rules,” Sean continued.

  “These are the rules for real boxing. None of that gloved stuff,” Mr. Murphy said. Leung couldn’t follow most of what he was being told. Mr. Murphy talked quicker than Sean, with a heavy accent. Leung thought he should ask the man to slow down or to let Sean explain, but he didn’t want to seem like a fool.

  “I hafta say, you don’t have a Chinaman’s chance,” Mr. Murphy added, then laughed way too loud. Leung hated that expression, and he decided to let Sean’s dad know it.

  “Don’t say that!” Leung shouted.

  Sean’s dad folded his arms, amused.

  Leung struggled to remain calm. Relax. Breathe. Balance.

  “My dad’s just teasing you, trying to get under your skin,” Sean said. “Look, when I told him about you, I didn’t think he’d like it one bit, but what did you say, Dad?”

  “Both the Irish and Chinese are used to get kicked around, so we’d better learn to fight back. But if you’re gonna fight, do it the right way. You understand, fella?” Mr. Murphy asked.

  Leung nodded and walked toward the circle’s rim. On the opposite side, Sean and his father talked. Impatient, Leung began to practice his form, like Uncle Tso had taught him.

  Sean and his father walked toward the center. “Now, boys, I know you want to fight, but let’s not get carried away,” Mr. Murphy said. “I don’t want anybody hurt. If it looks like it’s going that way, I’m going to stop it. Understand?”

  Leung nodded, then stripped off his shirt. Sean did the same. Sean’s skin was pale. His arms were long but not muscled. Leung felt confident he could win.

  “I also don’t want to be here all night, so after ten rounds, we say it’s a draw,” Mr. Murphy added.

  Leung hid his smile. The fight wouldn’t last ten rounds. It wouldn’t last ten minutes. While Leung had seen bareknuckle boxers before, he knew Sean had never seen a Wing Chun fighter. Sean had two fists. Leung had eight weapons: fist, elbow, knee, and foot, both left and right. He didn’t need Nang’s abacus to know which sum was greater.

  “You ready?” Sean asked. Leung nodded again, and they both took up fighting stances.

  Leung let the fresh twilight air work its way through his body, from his lungs to his fists, elbows, knees, and feet. He was centered, relaxed, balanced.

  As Leung moved toward Sean, he felt a sharp pain. Not from a fist to the face but from a bamboo rod smacking against the back of his legs.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “What are you doing here?” Uncle Tso shouted.

  Leung hung his head in shame. Anger at Uncle Tso rose within him and destroyed his centered calm.

  He didn’t answer Uncle Tso; no words in English or Chinese mattered.

  “Answer me!” The bamboo rod almost split against Leung’s shins.

  “Is there a problem, fella?” Sean’s father yelled. Leung motioned for him to stay back.

  Sean put his shirt on and went back to his corner.

  In his right hand, Tso held the map that Leung had left for Nang.

  “I told your father that I wouldn’t let you fight…”

  Leung blocked the words, just as he blocked out the pain of the rod cracking against his ankles. He remembered the scene of Tso’s promise like it was yesterday and in front of him, not five years ago and thousands of miles away.

  After the riot in California, everyone was hurt. Many were dead, but more would have died if Leung’s father hadn’t fought back. He had dispatched one rioter after another to protect Leung, the other children, and the few women. It was the most honorable act: sacrificing yourself to protect others.

  But even perfect form, the essence of the crane and the snake, was no match for weapons. Leung’s father fought them off with his bamboo stick, but there were too many.

  After a time, the rioters left. Not because the police had arrived—some of the police had even taken part—but because there was no more damage to do. The wounded immigrants gathered together. The herbs and oils that Nang used to cure so many things couldn’t stop the blood oozing from the wounds of Leung’s father. As he lay taking his last breaths, he told Tso to make Leung a Wing Chun fighter with perfect form, so perfect that no man dared challenge him. Tso promised on his life.

  As Leung recalled the scene, he remembered another promise that Tso made to his brother: to stop gambling. Tso had broken it a hundred times since they’d arrived in New York. Uncle Tso was an honorable man humbled by a bad habit. Leung would use his uncle’s weakness against him—just as Tso had taught him.

  He grabbed the rod out of his uncle’s hands, then stood surprised at how easily Tso had let it go. Tso’s eyes flared, but he said nothing.

  “How much?” Leung asked. His uncle didn’t answer. Instead he reached for the bamboo rod. It was then that Leung noticed his uncle’s hands. They were damaged, permanently, from railroad work, although Tso could still use them to spar and gamble. Leung had sensed that Tso’s gambling debts were large, but he’d never realized that Tso had made a down payment with the top of his left ring finger.

  “Come with me,” Leung said. His uncle fo
llowed, more like a child than an adult.

  Sean stopped them. “So, are we fighting or not?”

  Leung nodded. “Yes. I have my second now. But there’s one thing we forgot.”

  Leung whispered in Tso’s ear, then handed him back the bamboo rod. Uncle Tso took the rod in his right hand, but he didn’t raise it against Leung. Instead, Tso began to draw something in the dirt.

  “Like you said, Sean, I’m no fool,” Leung said.

  Sean and his father stared at the symbol that Uncle Tso had sketched: a dollar sign.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Are you sure, Leung?” Uncle Tso asked. Leung nodded one last time and then walked slowly toward the center of the circle. He needed to fight to prove himself; his uncle needed the money to save himself. Maybe a promise was like bamboo; it could bend without breaking.

  “Fight!” Mr. Murphy yelled.

  Sean and Leung stared at each other until Sean smiled.

  Like the boxers Leung had seen at the Woodrat, Sean started to throw punches at Leung’s face. Where the bareknuckle brutes would block the swings with their elbows, Leung swatted them away with his palms. Sean backed away as if he couldn’t believe what he had seen.

  Leung closed the distance, waiting to strike. Sean attacked again, throwing the same punches: right jab, left hook, another jab. None landed with any force, nor knocked Leung off balance. Wing Chun taught that striking with the closed fist wasted energy and channeled tension—but Sean wouldn’t have known that.

  For a third time, Leung let Sean throw punches, mostly hard jabs. Unable to strike, Sean tried to push Leung over, but Leung knocked him back with two hard palm blows to the chin.

  “You slap like a girl,” Sean said. He stepped up and threw a wild hook, which missed and sent him off balance. Leung stayed centered and slammed his open palm into Sean’s nose.

  Sean appeared angry and scared as blood trickled down his face.

  Like vultures on a dead animal, a swarm of palm blows smacked against the side of Sean’s face. As Sean put his hands up, Leung attacked with five, ten, and then fifteen rapid-fire punches, each one landing between Sean’s eyes. Sean tried to defend himself, but Leung closed in. Standing on his left leg, Leung pivoted and unleashed the power of his right leg with a side kick. The energy surged from Leung’s hip to knee to foot and smashed into Sean’s side.