Champion of the World by Chad Dundas Read Free Book Online Page B

one man in their group stood holding hands with a monkey. The monkey didn’t wear a jacket but had a hat to match the rest and waved a toy trombone in his free hand. Just as Markham was reaching the crescendo of his speech, the horn players suddenly struck up a warbling tune, stumbling through the curtain into the performance ring.
    Their melody was scattered and messy at first, but came together as they neared the center, their clumsy walk turning into a kind of haphazard choreographed dance. Markham stepped back from the microphone and stared. The crowd was caught off guard, too, the music snapping them out of the spell he’d been building. The lead musician waggled his hat in one hand and turned a little pirouette as they strutted across the ring. Markham stomped over, hands on his wide, womanly hips, and caught the bandleader by the collar. The two of them started a pantomimed argument while the other musicians stood shrugging, holding their hats and horns in their hands. Markham turned a deep shade of purple as he and the lead horn player got in each other’s faces. When their row reached its fever pitch, one of the roustabouts ducked his head into the tent and yelled: “Let them play!”
    The crowd picked up on it. “Yeah, let ’em play!” someone called out.
    Hearing that, Markham reared back and bumped the bandleader with his enormous belly, sending him tumbling into the sawdust. The townspeople, suddenly realizing this was all part of the show, erupted in laughter. Wood chips flew as the bandleader hopped up and gave chase, followed by the rest of the horn players all tooting an angry fugue. Markham ran a long circle around the ring, making sure every section of the grandstand got a front-row view of the pursuit. As he came back through the center of the tent he stopped and shouted into the microphone: “We’ve got a great show for you tonight! First up, the aerialist Star DeBelle and her team of lady acrobats! Give them a hand!” Then he sprinted for the exit with the horn players still on his tail. The crowd roared as he left the tent and the lady acrobats tumbled in, a few of them turning handsprings while the rest waved a rippling rainbow of five-foot flags.
    Moira pulled her eye away from the sidewall and she saw Pepper ambling down from the trailer in his cape and tights, flanked by his escort of clowns. From the look on his face, you’d never guess there was anything the matter with him. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his shoulders back, his walk steady. He looked confused for a moment when their eyes met, not expecting to see her there, and then he smiled as if he understood. The smile was cocky and dangerous and filled her to the point of bursting with love for him. He had smiled at her just that way the first time they’d met, years ago now, before either of them had ever heard of Boyd Markham, his traveling carnival, or the hangman’s drop.

    T he first wrestler to show up at The Green Sheet that night in 1912 was Aldous Hawthorne, a strutting fireplug with a sandy mustache who wore no jacket over a blazing pink shirt with white French cuffs. Moira didn’t know he was the world’s lightweightchampion until one of the waitresses told her, but from the way he breezed into the club without paying the cover charge—two toadies following him like they were sewn to his elbows—she knew he was somebody.
    Being somebody didn’t necessarily distinguish Aldous Hawthorne from the rest of the clientele at The Green Sheet. The club belonged to Jellyroll Hogan, a St. Louis alderman and part-time gangster, and everyone who drank, gambled and danced there did so with an unqualified belief in their own specialness. On a Saturday night, it was typical for ballplayers and tycoons to rub elbows with politicians and hoodlums. If a man didn’t at least bring a stage actress as his date, he could count on being mocked behind his back, all of them