who had grown quiet, he sighed. “Mrs. Walsh. I can only offer five if I go in and fight. The prize is for ten and I have others depending on me. Will that be enough?”
She half nodded. “We can do without the wreath and flowers. And I can dress her in one of her old gowns.” She brought her hands together, fingering the newspaper she held. “There be another matter pertainin’ to Jane.”
Coleman folded his arms over his chest to keep himself from fidgeting. He had never learned how to say no to a woman. Not even when it came to his damn mother-in-law. It was a curse. “What is it?”
That bundled grey-brown hair, which was sliding out from its pins, bobbed as she unraveled the rolled newspaper. She took apart page after page, tossing it to the ground. “Apparently she contacted these men before she died. I can’t read it.” She fumbled to fold and refold a page and pointed at what appeared to be an advertisement. “Heaven only knows why, but they came to my door askin’ what she knew. I wasn’t able to answer. Maybe you can?”
“I doubt it. Jane and I haven’t spoken in years.” Coleman took the newspaper and read it.
INFORMATION WANTED
A British boy by the name of Nathaniel James Atwood who disappeared in the year 1800 under suspicious circumstance is being sought out by his family. Information pertaining to his disappearance, his whereabouts or his remains shall be well rewarded. Please send all inquiries to His Grace, the Duke of Wentworth, or his son, Lord Yardley, who will both be residing at the Adelphi Hotel on Broadway until further notice.
A pulsing knot seized his throat. He knew he should have never told Jane spit.
Coleman crumpled the paper and tossed it at the ground. “I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to dirk them for money. Did you ask her?”
“She was already dead.” A strangled sob escaped Mrs. Walsh. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand, those features twisting.
He winced. He shouldn’t have said anything.
Every single Walsh boy now stared him down, their youthful faces hardening to an age closer to his own. One of them flicked out a razor and rounded his mother.
Matthew yanked both pistols from his leather belt and pointed each muzzle. “Don’t make me go click, razor boy.”
Mrs. Walsh popped out both arms, to shield her boys, who all scrambled back.
Coleman dragged in a breath. “Put the pistols away, Milton. He’s just a boy.”
Matthew grunted and shoved them back into his leather belt. “A boy who ought to learn some manners.”
The crowd around them dinned.
Coleman heard his name being called.
Knowing his designated fight was set to begin, Coleman flexed his hands and glanced toward the milling 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
