Champion of the World Read online

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Chad Dundas

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  eBook ISBN 9780698407138

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For Courtney, Bea and Fritz

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part I | MASTER OF THE HANGMAN’S DROP Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part II | CINCINNATI SMOKE Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part III | ONE FALL TO A FINISH Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Part IV | THE GRANDDADDY OF THEM ALL Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Historical Notes

  Acknowledgments

  Part I

  MASTER OF THE HANGMAN’S DROP

  The clowns came to get him when it was time for the hanging.

  He met them outside his trailer; a half dozen of them all dressed like cops, looking soiled and road-weary in their baggy blue uniforms, soda siphons hanging from their belts instead of guns and cuffs. No one spoke as they walked him down to the gallows, moving through the narrow alleys between the powerhouse trucks, costume tents and animal cages, heading for the spot on the infield grass where the white tops of the carnival’s seven performance pavilions lifted like billowing clouds. With ten minutes left before intermission a few of the candy butchers had already returned their covered pushcarts to the backyard area. They stood leaning against them, smoking cigarettes in orange and white coveralls, bored expressions on their faces. At the back door of the big tent he stopped to bounce a minute on his toes, a light dappling of rain blowing in off the bay, pricking up goose pimples on his bare arms and legs.

  One of the clowns made a sour face. “You all right?” His lipstick smile almost touching the corners of his eyes. “You’re looking a little chunky.”

  He ignored it, but the truth was, he was overweight. The night before, the ache in his bad leg had kept him up, and after the two-and-a-half-hour jump from Monterey to San Francisco, he snuck down to the pie car and ate three pickles wrapped in ham. The pickles tasted good but didn’t fill him up, so he had a square of apple cobbler for dessert. He shouldn’t have done that, and in the morning forced himself to vomit before spending an hour jogging around the backyard area in a heavy overcoat. Now, as he stood there surrounded by the clowns, his belly was empty, and cold fear gripped his heart. He hoped he wasn’t about to go out there and break his goddamn neck.

  Through a slit in the curtain he could see the horse opera was almost over. For nearly ninety minutes the sparse crowd in the infield bleachers had cheered the evening performance of the Markham & Markham Overland Carnival. They’d seen clowns and contortionists, trapeze artists and tightropers, a hypnotist, a strongman and a guy in a top hat who built a pyramid out of dogs. Now, as the Fabulous Texas Trick Riders of the Loose Deuce Ranch urged their mounts over a series of jumps for the big finale, people squirmed in their seats. Handkerchiefs were pressed to brows, a low murmur of bored chitchat meandering through the stands as fathers pulled out their watches and younger guys passed bottles on the sly.

  The carnival’s horn players trumpeted the trick riders’ closing number and the horses blew past him in a dusty stampede of sequins, silk and fringed buckskin. He closed his eyes against the grit, letting the breeze ripple his cape, savoring the smell of the rain and the clean, lush scent of ball field grass.

  Pepper Van Dean had no great love for stick and ball games. During his time as lightweight wrestling champion of the world he’d met his share of ballplayers and found most of them to be soft, shiftless men. Now, as he stood there waiting to go out to be hanged, he suddenly felt a stab of envy, knowing some of those guys made five thousand dollars a year playing a child’s game. What a life it must be, he thought, to spend your afternoons chasing a ball around the lawn, consenting to play only if the weather suited you. For years his brand of chewing tobacco had featured a picture of Ty Cobb under the lid. He wondered how much a guy got paid for something like that. Moira would probably know.

  “I should’ve been a ballplayer,” he said quietly, his eyes still closed, his toes wiggling inside his soft black boots.

  “Shit,” the clown spat. “You and me both, asshole.”

  When he finally looked, the stadium had gone quiet and a pair of stagehands in black executioner’s hoods were wheeling the towering gallows frame to the center of the tent. Once it was in place, Boyd Markham himself strolled out and posed in the hot island of a spotlight. Markham was a heavy man with a rolling wave of silver hair, and he wore his signature blood red carnation pinned to the lapel of a slippery tuxedo. Underneath, the silver of his silk brocade vest exactly matched his immaculate bow tie. He pressed his mouth close to a freestanding microphone, filling the tent with a hushed reverence, the audience leaning forward to hear his words over the distant hum of the powerhouse trucks.

  “Those of you familiar with physical culture may think you know this next act,” he said. “Those of you who are mere neophytes have no doubt still heard rumors of it, as its reputation precedes it throughout the civilized world. Indeed, a version of this daring deed has been attempted by a number of other performers with other, lesser traveling shows, sometimes with disastrous consequences.”

  A nervous titter moved through the crowd, but the ringmaster silenced it by bringing his voice up a notch. “Martin Burns!” he said, and the name drew some scattered applause. “Rabbit Farnum! You may even recall headlines announcing the tragic death of the strongman Enoch Hughes, who lost his life attempting a similar gambit some years ago. Indeed, this courageous feat of athletic prowess has been tried by other men in other towns. Unfortunately it is my duty to inform you that most of these men are no more than charlatans, and their various renditions of the
performance required little more than simple sleight of hand. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, you will see no gimmicks, no tricks, no illusionist’s hoax. Simply put, what you are about to observe here this evening inside this humble cathedral of athletic performance will be the most amazing display of raw strength and boundless endurance that you will see in all your lives. Why? Because we believe you deserve nothing less than the best right here”—a pause—“in the great city of San Francisco!”

  He basked for a moment in the cheers, the patient politician waiting out the adoring masses, smiling and nodding while the crowd revved itself up.

  “As your humble chaperone this evening it is my duty to inform you that what comes next is not for the weak of stomach or faint of heart. Those who are easily disturbed or have small children in attendance may want to excuse yourselves to the midway, or to our splendid gaming and merchandise pavilions. Those of you who choose to remain will no doubt stand witness to something that will stay with you throughout all your years. I assure you, it has had a similar effect on me.”

  He shielded his eyes from the spot and peered into the crowd, where no one was making for the exits. “Very well,” he said, nodding to someone in the wings. Another spotlight faded up at stage left, revealing the quartet of horn players standing beneath a banner that read “Master of the Hangman’s Drop!” in three-foot purple script.

  “Enough preamble,” the ringmaster said. “Please join me in welcoming the indestructible, unkillable man himself! The former lightweight wrestling champion of the world! Ladies and gentlemen, clap your hands for the master of the hangman’s drop! The immortal Pepper Van Dean!”

  The horn players blasted out a Ta-da! as the clowns pulled back the curtain. They all walked out together, blinded for a moment by the heat and light. The polite applause turned to cheers as Pepper suddenly burst free of the clowns, sending them toppling in a heap, and jogged around the ring, raising a hand to wave at everyone and no one. As he came to the front he whipped off his cape and gave them all a good look at him in just his boots and wrestling tights.

  He was a small man, all bone and gristle, his legs a little too short, his arms a little too long. His neck was so thick and powerful that it seemed to swallow up his shoulders. Cords of muscle rippled in it as he turned his head one way, then the other. Without warning, he spun and bent backward, balancing like a crab on the crown of his head, rolling and stretching his neck from side to side before kipping up to his feet.

  One of the stagehands came forward with a pair of handcuffs, holding them up for all to see, drawing the appropriate oohs and aahs as he jerked Pepper’s arms behind his back and led him around to the gallows. Once they’d climbed the steps to the platform, Boyd Markham strolled over, silver hair and dark suit shining, microphone now cupped in his hand. “Mr. Van Dean,” he said. “Any final words?”

  “Well,” Pepper said, voice cracking so badly he had to clear his throat and begin again. “Well, I’d just like to say”—taking some time to think it over—“God bless America. I hope everyone had a great Fourth of July, and if I don’t see you, have a good Thanksgiving, a merry Christmas and a happy New Year, too.”

  Some chuckles from the crowd.

  “Is that all?” Markham asked, a tease in his voice.

  Pepper swallowed hard. “Anybody got a drink?”

  It was late August 1921, and Prohibition jokes killed. One of the stagehands produced another black hood from his pocket and tugged it over Pepper’s head—his world suddenly flushed into darkness—before dragging him back a few steps to the middle of the platform. His feet stumbling and scraping across the wood. Inside the hood, it smelled like mildew and old sweat. Though he couldn’t see, he knew by heart what happened next. The stagehands stood him on his mark and slipped the noose, fat and deadly, over his head. Two more men in executioner’s hoods brought torches out from the back and planted them in the dirt on either side of the gallows. The spotlights dimmed and the torches bathed them all in a pale glow.

  “Enough pretense,” Markham announced. “Shall we put this man out of his misery?” The crowd cheered. “Okay, boys,” he said to the stagehands. “Let’s do it.”

  Pepper sucked in a gulp of air and held it, pinching his eyes shut. He couldn’t hear the crowd or the rumble of the powerhouse trucks or the crackle of the torches. Just his own breathing inside the hood. Footsteps moved across the platform as the stagehands approached a large red lever at one side of the gallows. He drew himself up as straight as he could, locking the muscles in his neck, back and shoulders, imagining Markham raising a hand to shoulder level, holding the crowd’s attention like Caesar deciding the fate of a defeated gladiator. Long moments now, and he cleared his mind, thinking only, as he always did, of Moira’s face just as Markham chopped his hand downward with a dramatic twist.

  The stagehands pulled the lever and the trapdoor fell out from under him. He dropped like a shot, three feet, and jerked stiff, the tent quiet except for the clatter of the trapdoor and snap of the rope. The horn players blasted another triumphant Ta-da! but Pepper didn’t move. A few moments of murmured confusion passed, and then the players tooted it again. Ta-da! Nothing. His body just hung there, still.

  Whispers spread through the audience as the stagehands ran down the steps and under the platform. Markham jogged over. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

  Another group of stagehands sprinted out carrying a stretcher, trailed by a man in a white doctor’s coat, a black bag in his hand. Markham leapt up and tore off Pepper’s hood, revealing his pallid, frozen face. A horrified gasp echoed through the stadium. Parents covered their children’s eyes. Men grumbled to each other, not sure if they should get up and leave. Then the stage lights winked out, leaving only the rippling torches.

  Somewhere far off, an elephant trumpeted.

  In the dark, a woman screamed.

  The longshoreman was dressed for an evening on the town, in a leather vest emblazoned with the seal of his union chapter and a silver bear claw belt buckle holding up herringbone slacks. His red hair hung loose to his shoulders, and the single gold tooth in his mouth glinted under the lights each time he won a hand of five-card poker. With the big clock in the gaming pavilion creeping up on half past seven, Moira Van Dean folded a pair of kings and let him take down a lukewarm pot with the tens she knew he had hidden. As he raked another stack of chips into his lap, the longshoreman blew her a kiss.

  Some men just didn’t know how to win without making a spectacle of themselves.

  For the first half of her shift, she had managed to make nice, letting the longshoreman win hand after hand without so much as a knowing laugh or an Oh, I do declare. This, though, was too much. As the next hand began, she showed him the honest, square-john grin she knew was best for taking people’s money, and he looked back like he wanted to sink his teeth into her.

  “Now the little lady is ready to play cards,” he announced, as if they were all about to watch a monkey try to tie its shoes.

  The rest of the sleepy-eyed drunks slouching around the table chuckled along with him, each of them watching her with the usual mix of boredom and animal lust. She wasn’t fooling anyone. In her apricot evening gown and beaded amber necklace, they knew she was the carnival shill. They all thought she was there to keep them company and to see that the carnival got its five percent rake out of every pot. In truth, her job was more about making sure the action at the table didn’t lag, that chips moved from one side of the table to the other at a brisk pace, and that they all continued ordering the watered-down highballs the carnival sold in paper soft drink cups for fifty cents apiece.

  Any money she collected went back to the carnival’s kitty, so her job was also to win a few hands from time to time—just not so many that it disrupted the game or the men gave up. In addition, she was there to cut any company losses, to make sure nobody won too much money. If one of these dockworkers and two-bit gr
inders proved sharp enough to put together a big stack of chips, Moira was tasked with winning some of it back. It was not challenging work. Once the evening performance got under way across the carnival lot, only the worst men remained inside the gaming pavilion. It would take a team of plow horses to drag any of them away before all their money was gone.

  Gaming pavilion was what employees of the Markham & Markham Overland Carnival were required to call it, though it was really just a weathered twenty-by-twenty canvas tent battened by yellowing sidewalls and domed in the middle with a thick wooden stake. It smelled of damp wool and trampled grass, the ground cold under her open-toed shoes. Electric lights were set up on poles in all four corners, and under the clamor of the men drinking and writhing and giving away their savings, you could hear them buzzing.

  The game was standard stud poker. Each player got five cards—three up, two down—with a series of betting rounds between. By the time the dealer got three cards into the next hand, most of the men at the table had folded, leaving just Moira and the longshoreman to play heads-up. The dealer flopped the longshoreman a jack of clubs as his fourth card, and when he bet on it like a bull charging for a matador’s cape, Moira fought down a smirk. One look at the longshoreman’s drunken, bloodshot eyes told her he had a hand he liked. She signaled the dealer by putting both her elbows on the table and the dealer gave her the high sign to fold, idly touching the knot of his necktie with the tips of his fingers. Before she made a move, she chewed a fingernail and let her eyes stray nervously around the table, wanting the men to think she was uncertain. Finally, painfully, with her head tipped slightly to one side and her mouth pinched in a regretful scowl, she pushed in her cards.

  “Fold,” she said.

  The longshoreman made a clucking sound with his tongue and swept up another meager pot. “Cowardly,” he said.

  She bit her lip. She wanted to tell him she knew he was holding at least one more jack, that he had her pair of fours beat all to hell, but instead she just frowned into her lap. The longshoreman flipped his cards to show off three of a kind, and she clamped her hand over her mouth, wide-eyed, hamming it up. The men shifted in their seats, embarrassed for her, and as the dealer began to shuffle again they busied themselves counting their chips, congratulating the longshoreman with the looks of men who believed it should have been them.