A Good American by Alex George

afternoon Kliever had still given no explanation as to where they were going. Finally he pulled the horse off the main road onto a gravel path that they followed for several miles. Despite the remoteness of the location, they suddenly found themselves surrounded by people. Men, ill-shaven and dressed in clothes dirtied by the day’s labor, were engaged in animated debate, all headed in the same direction. Kliever pulled his hat down over his eyes and directed the horse past the ambling crowds.
    They arrived in a clearing in which a mass of people had already assembled. The focus of activity was centered beneath the boughs of an enormous oak tree, where two squares had been marked out by rope and wooden stakes, one inside the other. Men were exchanging fistfuls of money for hastily scribbled notes. Most of the crowd were laborers, but Frederick also saw the uniforms of professional men. There were women there, too, and he had lived long enough in a big city to recognize what sort of women they were. He looked at Kliever. “What sort of event brings whores and lawyers out into the middle of the countryside?”
    “The manly art,” answered Kliever. He put up his fists and threw a mock punch.
    “A
prize fight
?”
    “With excellent odds.”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Don’t worry. I know the right man. Come on.”
    Frederick followed Kliever through the crowd. Perched high up in the branches of nearby trees, men gazed down at the ring, waiting for the fight to begin.
    “They’ll have the best view,” said Frederick, pointing up.
    “They’re not up there to watch the fight,” said Kliever. “They’re keeping a lookout for the police.” He saw Frederick’s expression. “When men fight each other these days, they’re supposed to wear gloves,” he explained.
    “This is illegal?”
    “In theory.” Kliever looked around him. “But there are several policemen here, I’m sure. They enjoy a good scrap better than most.” He walked through the crowd toward a small, rat-like man in a tweed suit, who was perspiring freely in the warmth of the evening. An ugly smile appeared on his face as he saw Kliever approach.
    “Ah, Mr. Kliever,” he said. “You’ll have your usual wager, I presume? Today I can offer you a hundred to forty.” His little eyes glinted. “
Very
generous, you’ll agree.”
    Kliever grunted and produced his own bundle of notes. The bookmaker quickly counted the money and wrote him a receipt. He turned his attention to Frederick.
    “And you, sir?” he asked. “Will you have the same?”
    Frederick’s fingers curled protectively around the money in his pocket and he silently cursed his stupidity. An unlawful bet! He shook his head. “I am sorry,” he said stiffly. “I cannot wager my money. I do not even know who is fighting.”
    The man laughed. “You’re unsure who to back?” he chuckled. “Mr. Kliever, who would you suggest?”
    Kliever looked away for a moment, his eyes searching for the boxing ring beneath the oak tree. Then he turned back to Frederick and said, “Me.”
    M oments later Frederick was following Kliever toward the ring, clutching the bookmaker’s receipt. He had been so surprised that he handed over all his money without another word of protest.
    “This lad today is a local boy, very popular,” Kliever was saying as he marched ahead. “Butcher’s apprentice. He’s strong and quick, but young. He’s not done much fighting yet. Still learning.” There was an unfamiliar steel in his voice. “I’ll teach him a thing or two.”
    They arrived at the outer rope of the boxing ring, which was patrolled by a team of burly-looking men. All around them the crowd was raucous, fired up by excitement and the afternoon heat. Kliever took off his hat and threw it over the ropes. When it landed on the beaten-down grass in the inner ring, the crowd erupted, a huge roar in their throats.
    Kliever stepped through the ropes and pulled off his shirt. The cries of the men around him