The Gamble (Bareknuckle) Read online

  “No kicking!” Leung heard Mr. Murphy shout. Sean started to fall. As Sean tumbled, Leung landed a centerline punch to his opponent’s jaw that caused Sean’s eyes to roll back in his head. Mr. Murphy didn’t even bother to count, tending to his son instead.

  “Is he okay?” Leung asked as he followed behind Mr. Murphy. Sean struggled to his feet.

  “He’ll be okay, but you won’t if you do that again, fella,” Mr. Murphy said. “Kicking is against the rules. So you beat him, but you lose for breaking the rules.”

  Leung accepted Mr. Murphy’s words. His concern was for Sean’s well-being.

  “Heck of a fight,” Sean finally said. He tried to shake Leung’s hand, but had a hard time finding it with his eyes swelling shut. “I don’t know what that was, but it wasn’t boxing.”

  “Whatever it was, I gotta admit, it sure worked,” Mr. Murphy said. “You know, Leung, with some more training, you might have the makings of champion.”

  “Could I fight at the Woodrat?” Leung asked.

  “You have nothing to prove,” Leung’s uncle snapped. “Let’s go home.”

  “My uncle says no,” Leung said. He didn’t try to hide the disappointment in his voice.

  “What would make him change his mind?” Mr. Murphy asked. Leung pointed at the dollar sign, still perfectly etched in the dirt behind them.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Sean, what’s wrong?” Leung asked.

  The noise below them at the Saturday night fight was growing louder, and Sean had told Leung that his ears still rang from their fight a few days ago. Leung suspected something else—that Sean was worried about his dad’s fight.

  “Sean, what’s wrong?” he asked again. Sean still didn’t answer. Originally, Sean’s father had been scheduled to fight during the day. But then Oakley told—not asked, but told—Mr. Murphy that he’d fight at night. He wouldn’t be battling fellow Irishman Michael O’Reilly as planned. Instead, he’d box against Douglas Truman.

  Leung started to speak again, but Sean waved his hand. He heard Oakley giving introductions. As before, there were few cheers when Oakley introduced Mr. Murphy—and more hisses than in a snake pit. Truman decided to introduce himself.

  “I stand here before you the undefeated and uncrowned king of bareknuckle boxing in New York City. I’ve already defeated the papist O’Reilly, and in a few moments, I’ll defeat another. When will a real American stand up and try to defeat me? Only then can I declare myself to be a true champion of this fine city, now infested with this foreign vermin.”

  The crowd cheered their approval and clapped in anticipation of the battle. Leung noticed some object with beads wrapped tight around Sean’s hand. Sean spoke a few words under his breath and then kissed the beads as Mayflower yelled for the fight to start.

  Both men assumed a fighting stance, yet for a good minute, they didn’t touch each other. The crowd booed until Truman scored a hard jab to Mr. Murphy’s jaw. Sean’s dad fought off the blow, but he couldn’t counter. Murphy’s strikes were hard and fast but not accurate. An attempt at a hook left him off balance, and Truman took control with a blow from the right. A centered fighter could’ve blocked the punch easily, but Mr. Murphy stood no chance.

  Round after round after round, the results were the same. Truman used his size and strength to absorb the punches Mr. Murphy got through, and he fought back with looping blows. Most of them didn’t land, but the few that connected knocked Sean’s father down and ended the round.

  “Stay down,” Leung heard Sean whisper. “Stay down, Dad, stay down.”

  Mr. Murphy couldn’t hear Sean, and even if he could’ve, Leung guessed he wouldn’t have listened. By the tenth round, Truman appeared to be tiring. Blood dribbled from the face of Mr. Murphy, but his breathing was steady. He’d weathered the storm.

  Sean’s father danced around the fighters’ circle, making Truman chase him. The crowd booed, but it was the perfect strategy. Mr. Murphy used his brain and his brawn. Maybe he would tire the bigger man out, take all the energy out of his body, and then, when the time was right, strike.

  Truman finally landed a jab, but instead of following up with another blow, he tied up Mr. Murphy’s arms, not allowing him to punch. The two men looked more like dancers than fighters, and the crowd began to boo. Sean’s father tried to push away, but he couldn’t escape Truman’s grip.

  “He’s going to win,” Sean said, but then it happened. Truman bullied Mr. Murphy down to the ground. As they fell, Truman drove his knee into his foe’s groin. Truman crawled to his feet while Sean’s father lay in agony on the ground.

  Sean’s dad was face down when Oakley raised Truman’s hand in the air. Truman walked over his fallen foe, toward the corner where a green handkerchief was tied to a nearby pole.

  “That’s the colors. The winner gets it,” Sean said. “Like taking the flag of a nation you’ve defeated.”

  Truman held the handkerchief in the air, then blew his nose on it as the crowd roared.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “How did you find us?” Leung asked Sean and Mr. Murphy.

  Amazingly, the Irishmen stood in the alley where Leung had been practicing centerline strikes on the wooden dummy. Sean’s father’s face looked like the American flag: red hair, white skin, and blue bruises.

  “I just kept saying Wing Chun to everybody. That was enough,” Sean said.

  Both Sean and Leung laughed, although Mr. Murphy’s jaw didn’t move.

  “Sorry about your fight,” Leung whispered to Mr. Murphy, then bowed in respect. Leung thought it took a tough man to take that kind of beating, to keep getting up only to be knocked down again. Only one kind of man was tougher: the one that never got knocked down at all.

  “I think my dad should fight that cheater Truman again,” Sean said. “He had him beat.”

  Leung nodded in agreement. “It is no shame to lose to a dishonorable man.”

  “But Dad doesn’t want a rematch. He’s got another idea,” Sean said. “I don’t agree, but you don’t get anywhere arguing with your elders, right?”

  Leung nodded, although he wasn’t so sure. Just as his father had balanced between his brothers, Leung felt that he too was stuck in the middle, with each uncle trying to pull him toward the older man’s way of life. But the key to life was to stay centered.

  “I suppose you’re wondering what we’re doing here,” Sean continued.

  Mr. Murphy sat on Uncle Tso’s wooden stool. It wasn’t warm, since Leung’s uncle had not been seen in days. Leung wondered if Tso was celebrating a big gambling win or running from another loss. Would he come home with gold rings on every finger or one less knuckle on his left hand?

  “What’s that?” Mr. Murphy managed to say as he pointed at the wooden dummy.

  Leung was more than happy to show off the form exercises. Sean and his father marveled as Leung threw strikes at the dummy.

  Afterward, Leung explained as best he could how the three arms and one leg of the dummy represented a foe’s positions and the lines of force. The dummy was mounted on slats to resemble a human’s way of absorbing energy.

  “Master the dummy, master the man,” Leung said with pride.

  “It’s not the same as sparring with a real person, though, is it?” Sean asked.

  “No, but it helps me develop perfect form,” Leung answered.

  Sean raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you can become a real boxer without fighting against someone.”

  “No one else here in the Five Points excels at Wing Chun,” Leung explained. “And no one knows how to box.”

  “But I know how to box, and—” Sean started to say.

  Leung shook his head. “We could not be friends if we fought all the time.”

  Sean laughed and patted Leung’s shoulder. “That’s true, but to be honest, I don’t think I want to fight you again. I thought I could box, but there’s no way I could ever beat you.”

  Leung bowed in respect and in thanks.

 
“How about me?” Mr. Murphy said softly.

  Leung’s head snapped back. “You?”

  “The only way to beat Truman is to become the best fighter possible,” Sean said.

  Leung nodded his head. “Of course, but I thought…”

  “I said that my dad didn’t want a rematch,” Sean continued. “And that’s right.”

  “Then …?”

  “You,” Mr. Murphy said. He tried his best to smile.

  “Me?” Leung asked.

  “My dad thinks that with training, you could defeat Truman. So, how about it, fella?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “So that’s it. Do I have your permission?”

  Leung couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with Uncle Tso or Uncle Nang. The three sat in the alley, away from the stifling heat of the crowded tenement. As Leung had explained what Mr. Murphy proposed, he sensed anger and suspicion growing within his uncles.

  Nang and Tso sipped their tea, but neither spoke, each man waiting for the other, almost like the start of a fight.

  “I have to tell them today,” Leung said. Mr. Murphy had learned about a day of fights scheduled for the Fourth of July, two months away. Leung would need to train and get in at least one fight to be included.

  “I want to talk with these people,” Uncle Nang finally said.

  Tso said nothing, just sipped his tea. He didn’t admit to having met the Murphys.

  “I am torn,” Nang said, speaking in Chinese so Tso could understand. “We’re never invited into the white world, except to feed or entertain them. But with this, you could get hurt, Leung. Yet, you could also show the toughness of the Chinese people.”

  Tso spoke: “He will show them nothing of the kind. He cannot win. His form is not yet perfect. He can defend, but he cannot attack. He lacks perspective and patience.”

  Leung hung his head in shame. His uncle did not believe in him. Part of him wanted to say, “Maybe the teacher, not the student, is to blame.” But he stayed silent.

  “Win or lose, you could be hurt,” Nang said. “We’ve had enough pain in our family.”

  “But I will win, I will show them, and I will bring pain, not take it,” Leung said. He knew Tso was right; his form was not yet perfect, and it would never be. He would never be as skilled in Wing Chun as his father had been or as skilled as Tso wanted him to be. He’d be something else instead: someone who could take Wing Chun to victory in bareknuckle boxing.

  Tso took his right finger and poked Leung in the chest. “No good can come of this. Maybe, when you are older, and your form is—”

  “They pay fighters,” Leung said. “I would give the money to you, my teacher.”

  Another chest poke, this one not as hard. “How much?” Tso asked.

  Before Leung could answer, Uncle Nang knocked Tso’s finger away. “Whatever you would earn, Leung, you keep. For you, Tso, it would not be enough.”

  “I need your permission, Uncle Nang. You are the elder,” Leung said.

  Nang stared at his brother. “I will let Tso decide. It was he who made the promise.”

  Uncle Tso stood and started to leave. “There is nothing to decide. I have said that—”

  Leung called after his uncle: “The real money, I understand, is from the gambling on the fights.”

  Tso turned around. “They bet?”

  Leung nodded while Nang sighed deeply.

  “No one would expect me to win, so the odds would be against me. Someone betting on me could make a lot of money.”

  “Perhaps … one fight,” Tso said softly. Then he began to ask questions about the betting.

  Leung explained what little he knew. Tso smiled, nodded, and soaked up the information like a sponge.

  “So I have your permission?” Leung asked. Tso nodded. His left hand emerged from his pocket as he absently held his tea, revealing one thumb, three fingers, and one stump.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Are you ready for the hard part?”

  Drenched in sweat, Leung stared in confusion at Mr. Murphy. Murphy had spent the last four hours teaching Leung the basics of bareknuckle boxing. All the while, Leung had struggled to maintain Wing Chun practices. Leung wondered what the man meant by his remark. What could be harder?

  “We need to sell the idea to Mr. Mayflower,” Mr. Murphy said. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

  Mr. Murphy dipped a towel in a bucket of water and tossed it to Leung. He dipped another one for himself. Sweat and hard work knew no nation.

  Like Uncle Tso, Mr. Murphy was a natural teacher. Sometimes, down by the docks where they trained, Murphy would fight with Leung. Other times, he’d have Leung and Sean spar. All the while, he’d stop, explain the mistake Leung had made, and make Leung perform the move until he got it right. It was done at half speed so no one got hurt, but it was as tough as any training that Uncle Tso had ever put Leung through. Unlike Tso, whose training was about perfect form, Mr. Murphy focused on practical fighting: skills and strategies. With luck, they’d mix the best of the bareknuckle boxing style with Wing Chun to create a new fighting form.

  “Put your hat on,” Mr. Murphy said. Leung did as he was told. As they walked from the abandoned field through the crowded streets toward Woodrats, not a word was said by Leung or the Murphys. Nor by the people they passed who, had they noticed, would have been shocked at the sight of a Chinese boy, outside of Chinatown, walking with two Irishmen.

  Once they arrived at the Woodrat, Mr. Murphy told Sean and Leung to wait in the alley. But no sooner had Mr. Murphy left than Sean motioned for Leung to follow him to their watching spot. Leung wanted to hear the men talk, but more than that, he wanted to leave the stinking alley.

  Even though no fight was taking place, it was loud inside the Woodrat. But then again, it was always loud in the Bowery. Sometimes the noise of so many people in such a small space reminded Leung of the roar of locomotive. Except most of these people were going nowhere, trapped in tenement slums—unless they took a gamble at getting out.

  Trying to ignore the noise, Leung watched as Lew Mayflower yelled at Sean’s dad. Mr. Murphy didn’t yell back. Instead, he laughed and whispered something to Mayflower. Mayflower nodded, and then the two men started to walk toward the back door, to the alley. A heavy drunk stumbled alongside them, wrapped in a headlock by Oakley.

  Quickly, Leung and Sean returned to the alley. Seconds later, Lew Mayflower, Murphy, Oakley, and the drunk emerged. “That’s him,” Mr. Murphy said. “Show him something, Leung.”

  Leung looked at Mr. Murphy, unsure what the man wanted. Mayflower put money in the hand of the drunk and then pushed him toward Leung. “Fight that boy!” Mayflower yelled.

  The drunk put the money in his pants, stripped off his shirt, and assumed a fighting pose. Leung did the same.

  “Lose the hat, kid,” Mayflower said. With great reluctance, Leung removed his hat. His bald head shone in the heat, while the long dark hair swayed behind him. The drunk threw the first punch, a hard left that Leung deflected, as he did the next one and the one after that.

  “Pretty good, huh, Mr. Mayflower?” Mr. Murphy said.

  Blocking the punches was easy for Leung. Trying to restrain from kicking was harder. He’d lift his leg for a front kick and pull back. Leung saw that when he did that, the drunk leaned backwards, off balance. It was the opening he needed. Leung drove straight-line punches to the man’s face.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Any questions?” Mr. Murphy asked Uncle Nang.

  Nang shook his head and then spoke in Chinese to Tso. Like Leung, the two men hid their faces under their hats. Tso whispered something back to Nang.

  “My brother wants to know if we will be allowed to watch the fight,” Nang asked. Leung knew better. Tso didn’t just want to watch the fight, he wanted to bet on it.

  “I’ll ask Mayflower,” Mr. Murphy answered. “But on a rough night, it might not be the safest place…”

  All Leung had told his uncles was that he’d be fig
hting at the Woodrat. He certainly didn’t want to tell them about the fight in the alley or about the conversation afterward between Lew Mayflower and Sean’s father. Even after Leung showed off his skills, Mayflower wasn’t sure he wanted to book him for a Woodrat fight. He agreed only when Mr. Murphy pushed the idea that if Leung won, the victory would make him a contender to fight Douglas Truman, a fight many people would pay to see.

  Leung tried to focus on his training. Mr. Murphy had adopted Lew Mayflower’s training strategy for Leung. He’d recruit men from the alley behind Woodrats, sober them up with coffee, and pay them to spar with Leung. Few men lasted more than two rounds before ending up as Mr. Murphy had found them: face down in the dirt.

  “Leung, attack the body,” Mr. Murphy shouted. Leung nodded and waited for his chance. His hands were hurting. He had knocked out every opponent with his punches and palm blows, but the crunch of bone against bone shot pain through his arms. He had more and more trouble relaxing and staying able to uncoil a perfect strike.

  The fighter across from him wore an eye patch over his left eye and had scars across his body. He might have fought in the war that started around the time that Leung arrived in California, the one between the North and the South. Many of the men Leung had seen in the Bowery’s alleyways or drunk in the streets were missing body parts.

  “Come on, fight!” Tso yelled in Chinese, which seemed to distract Leung’s foe.

  At first, Leung hadn’t wanted to spar with these men. It didn’t seem right. But he guessed the money Mr. Murphy gave them might be all they would earn that week.

  When the man tried to fight up close, Leung ducked under his arms. He elbowed the man’s ribs. As the man dropped his head in pain, Leung exploded with an uppercut that knocked the man down and out.