The Puzzle King by Betsy Carter Read Free Book Online

warm air would nudge winter’s grip, and the men would take off their woolen jackets, push up their shirtsleeves, and gather around the chalk drawings in front of 262 Eldridge Street. They regarded the boundaries of the drawings like a street marked off with police tape, and no one dared to step on a single line of the sketches. Their conversation knew no such boundaries, and the men battled with each other for who could be the most insulting.
    “Fitzsimmons is a bum, not even an American.”
    “He’s a pipsqueak. Corbett’ll bust his head open.”
    “Corbett’s a rich boy sissy.”
    “He’s got a head like a rabbit. You know what they say about guys with small heads, don’t you?”
    And so it went until the day of the big fight, which took place in a packed amphitheater in the frontier town of Carson City, Nevada. Every sports reporter west of the Mississippi was there, as was the legendary lawman Wyatt Earp. The newspapers would have a field day reporting fact by bloodied fact. In the fourteenth round, Fitzsimmons landed a left-handed blow under Corbett’s heart. He followed that with a jab to his face. Corbett sank into the ropes, hoping they would support him. His hair fell across his face as he tried to keep himself upright; the blood mixed with sweat spreading across his features. His ears swelled like mushrooms; his eyes turned upward until all you could see were the whites. Fitzsimmon’s face looked haunted. After one minute and forty-five seconds in that round, Corbett sank onto his left knee and the referee declared Bob Fitzsimmons the new world heavyweight champion.
    More than a thousand people had gathered at City Hall Park, where bulletins were posted blow by blow. But anyone who came to 262 Eldridge Street just hours after the fight saw the final moment come to life, come to larger than life, in concrete and chalk: Corbett on his knee, balancing on his right hand, struggling to stay aloft; the referee counting down, jabbing his finger like a pistol in the air; Fitzsimmons, looming over his wounded opponent, his arms akimbo, his brow furrowed, looking more like a worried parent than a new world champion. While Pissboy ran back and forth delivering periodic updates, Simon spared no detail.
    That day, the clouds loomed low in the sky, their gray pockets stuffed with rain. The threat of a storm created a sense of urgency about the chalk pictures on the sidewalk and word spread quickly to as far away as the Upper East Side about the boy on Eldridge Street who’d captured the already famous countdown.
    Simon was on his hands and knees on the sidewalk, starting to make another drawing of the referee holding up Fitzsimmons’s gloved fists in victory. A heavyset man in a gray gabardine suit and a white linen shirt kneeled down next to him. “So you’re the kid that’s been drawing all these pictures,” he said, losing his balance and pitching toward Simon.
    “Yes, that’s me,” said Simon, instinctively moving backward.
    The man placed his hands on the sidewalk in order to steady himself. “Your pictures are real good, particularly that one.” He spoke in a wheezy voice and pointed to the one of Fitzsimmons scoring his knockout. “I’ll buy that one off you for five bucks.”
    Simon was still on all fours. He drew himself up to his knees and was now the same height as the gentleman crouched down next to him. “Five bucks?” Now it was Simon’s turn to lose his balance. He was fourteen years old and to him five dollars was a small fortune. It was nearly half the money he’d brought from Vilna.
    “Yeah, you draw me that exact picture on paper, and I’ll pay you five bucks. I’ll make a poster from it. Plenty of people are keen for it.”
    Simon paused, trying to figure out if he’d ever seen such a thing as a poster. The man mistook his silence as hesitation. “Tell you what, give it to me by tomorrow and I’ll give you a penny for every one I sell. Not bad, eh?”
    “I’ll do it,”