Forever a Lord. Delilah Marvelle
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fence. A burly dark-haired man stepped into the fenced arena and stripped. Throwing large bare hands into the air, Vincent the Iron Fist, as he was known throughout the ward, yelled at the crowd to cheer as the umpire repainted the fighting line with broken chalk.
It was time to spray blood and earn ten dollars.
Leaning in toward his mother-in-law, he squeezed her arm. “Stay here.” Stripping his coat and yanking his linen shirt up over his head, Coleman bundled them and tossed everything toward the only man he’d ever entrust his clothes to: Matthew. “For God’s sake, don’t let her watch,” he said, gesturing to Mrs. Walsh.
Matthew caught his clothes and slung them over his own shoulder. “I’ll turn her the other way.”
“You do that.” Ducking beneath the crudely nailed planks that divided the crowd from the fight, Coleman entered the grass-flattened area.
Hordes of men gathered closer to the fence, making the planks sway.
“Fist the piss out of him, Vincent!” someone hollered. “He’s a Brit!”
“Brit or no Brit,” another joined in, “I’ve got fifteen dollars riding on him. You hear that, Coleman? Fifteen dollars. So don’t let me down!”
It was pathetic knowing his name was only worth fifteen. But then again, it was better than the half-dollar he was worth years ago.
Rising shouts filled the humid summer air as he stalked toward the chalked line, the piercing heat of the sun pulsing from the sky against his bare chest and face.
Massive shoulders and heavily scarred knuckles headed toward the opposing chalked line. Vincent the Iron Fist brought two beefy fists up to his unshaven round chin, widening his stance.
Widening his own stance, Coleman squared his bare shoulders and snapped up both fists. Tightening his thumbs around his knuckles, he waited for the umpire’s signal, his chest rising and falling in slow, even pumps.
Cheers and shouts rippled through the air.
The umpire lifted his hand and swung it down. “Set to!”
Vincent darted forward and whipped a fist at his head.
Coleman jumped away, boots skidding, and jumped back in, determined to rip out every last thought of poor Jane. Gritting his teeth, he rammed a shoulder-powered fist beneath those exposed ribs, hitting the expanse of flesh with a crunching sting that jarred the swinging arm.
Coleman knew the son of a bitch was going down.
Staggering against the hit, Vincent stumbled back toward the fence and onto the ground, chest pumping.
“To the line!” The umpire pointed to the chalked marking. “Half a minute to get to the line. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!”
Coleman jogged back over to the line, keeping both fists up. “Come on, Vincent,” he called out as the umpire kept counting. “Get up. Give me and the crowd a fight. You’re making us both look bad.”
Vincent set his jaw, scrambled up and jogged over to the line before the last ten seconds.
The umpire raised a hand between them. “Round two, gents. And…set to!”
Vincent darted forward and shot out an unexpected side sweep that cracked into the side of Coleman’s head, causing him to stumble against the searing blow. His focus wavered as a blur of hits assaulted his drifting senses. Blood now tinged his mouth and dribbled from his nose as Coleman dodged and blocked only those blows that were necessary in an effort to conserve strength.
The sequence of knuckled fists quickened, cracking down onto and into Coleman’s shoulders and arms.
Vincent grunted in an effort to keep the blows steady.
Leveling his breathing, Coleman systematically counted those hard hits as they penetrated his muscle and bone, jarring him with pain. Between ragged, staggering breaths, Coleman counted every swing, until he found the pattern he’d been looking for. Five swings and a pause. Five swings and a pause. The man was a hall clock.
Five brutal punches pummeled Coleman’s shoulders again. Darting forward right at the pause, Coleman rammed a fist below that ear. The jarring of his own muscled arm against the side of his opponent’s head announced that he’d delivered the perfect hit: a blood vessel shot.
Vincent’s eyes bulged. He staggered, his swollen, blood-slathered hands jumping up to shield his head.
Gritting his teeth, Coleman jumped in and hit the now-exposed side until his knuckles were clenchingly numb. Belting out a riled roar he’d been holding, knowing Jane had stupidly lost her last breath to laudanum, he slammed a fist up and deep into Vincent’s lower ribs, trying to break them all in half.
Vincent wheeled back and collapsed onto the ground. His gnarled, swollen hands covered his side as he gasped. Bright red blood streamed from his nose and lips as he rocked in anguished panting silence.
“Back!” the umpire called, holding out a hand and ordering Coleman to get back to the chalked line.
Peddling toward the chalk line with both fists still up, Coleman waited, chest heaving and nostrils flaring. He could feel his right eye swelling shut as sweat dripped from his forehead to his nose and down the length of his chin. He swiped at it, smearing blood from his nose, and awaited the verdict.
The crowd counted down in unison.
When Iron Fist didn’t rise, he knew he’d won.
The umpire pointed at Coleman. “Here be the champion of this here quarter! The next and last quarter is set to begin with new opponents in fifteen minutes. So place your bets, gents!”
Coleman sometimes felt like he was cattle. No one ever even announced his name when he won. But that was street fighting for you. It was about money and blood. Nothing more.
In a blur of shouts and the waving of hats in the dust-ridden summer heat, Coleman dropped his arms, spit out the acrid blood that had gathered in his mouth and staggered over to the side fence where his earnings waited. Stanley, who always assisted Coleman in coordinating his street fights at fifty cents a piece, tsked, his unkempt whiskers shifting against his round face. “Why the hell do you keep doin’ these measly dollar street fights? You’re not gettin’ any younger, you know. In fact, most boxers your age are not only retired but dead.”
“I appreciate the confidence, Stanley.”
“You need to cease runnin’ out on the investors I bring and take on bigger fights over on Staten Island, is what. Because it’s breakin’ you. And it’s breakin’ me. I can’t make a livin’ at fifty cents a fight.”
“If you don’t like the money I bring, walk. Because I’m not about to take on an investor. Every one I’ve met is nothing more than a money-licking asshole looking to own me.” Coleman could feel the welts on his body swelling, stretching his pulsing skin. He refocused. “I want my ten. Now.”
Stanley grumbled something and held out the tin bucket. A tied sack, filled with coins, waited. “Ten. And I booked another street fight for you in two weeks. You can pay me then.”
“Good. I appreciate it.” Coleman reached into the bucket and yanked out the muslin sack. Shifting the weight of the coins in his swollen hand, he jogged back toward the fence.
He ducked beneath the planks and rejoined the crowd. Leaning toward Mrs. Walsh, he grabbed her bare hand and set the muslin sack into it. Goodbye, Jane. I’m sorry it ended like this for you. “Take all of it. Buy her the wreath and the flowers and a new gown and keep whatever is left for yourself and the boys.”
She glanced up. “You loved her. Didn’t you?”
Coleman said nothing. He didn’t want to lie to her. Because he’d never loved Jane. He’d learned to help women like Jane get out of stupid situations, yes, and enjoyed having sex with said women he got out of stupid situations, yes, but love? He’d never known it or felt it. Nor