the villa felt empty without them, peaceful.
Freda carried two milk shakes on to the patio. ‘Banana, try it — have you ever had a banana?’
Evelyne shook her head and sipped the milky yellow drink, then smiled approval. Edward clambered on to her knee and grabbed the drink with both hands while Evelyne struggled to prevent him spilling it all over the table. At the same time she asked Freda what she thought about the forthcoming fights.
‘Oh, darlink, first it’s just a little one, with Knoot somebody, then a few more to get the Americans familiar with Freedom’s name. You don’t worry, Ed’s not worried, and he knows … look, Edward — see, this is a straw, and you suck up your drink like so …’
She demonstrated sucking through the straw. Edward couldn’t quite get the hang of it and blew instead. Freda turned to Evelyne with banana milk shake dripping down her face. She laughed, saying it was for her sunburn.
Ed and Freedom travelled to Ohio by train, while Sir Charles flew there in a private plane owned by Jack Kearn. He was even allowed to take over the controls, and began to think about acquiring one himself.
The gate for Freedom’s fight with Knud Hansen was only fair, about four hundred people. Ed was confident Freedom could take the Dane with ease; the man punched wildly, and used an open-armed swing. He was enormous, weighing in eight pounds heavier than Freedom.
The crowd cheered them both, and as the gong went for round one their cheers turned to loud boos. Freedom was moving around, trying to assess his man, and had hardly thrown a single punch when he caught a wild right and was knocked ‘clean out, to the fury of the crowd.
This was Freedom’s first defeat, and he was totally demoralized and dejected, stunned at his own stupidity. However, with Ed always close by and confident that it was a fluke, they arranged a second bout fast. Although the press had been there, the fight hardly caused a ripple in the papers as they were all carrying banner headlines about a brutal killing, a blood bath that had taken place in Chicago.
The headlines ran, ‘St Valentine’s Day Massacre’. Only a small article, a single paragraph in the sporting section, reported the English contender, Britain’s only hope for the Heavyweight Championship, had lost. ‘Stubbs KO’d Round One by the Great Dane.’
Evelyne’s heart stopped when the rotund figure of Freda charged down the beach, kicking up sand behind her. Evelyne jumped to her feet, panic-stricken. ‘What is it? Freedom? Is he all right?’
‘Ohhhh, oh, oh … it was on the radio, you won’t believe it, but … they were murdered, all of them gunned down.’
Freda saw the horror in Evelyne’s face and quickly gasped out the Al Capone story. Evelyne flopped back on the hot sand. ‘Freda … oh, Freda, I thought something terrible had happened.’ She sat up suddenly, stared at Freda. ‘Al Capone? No, are you sure? It couldn’t be right, he was so nice! He wouldn’t do anything so terrible as shooting people, you must have misheard it, Al Capone?’
Freda was adamant. It had been on the radio, so it had to be true. Evelyne let a handful of sand trickle through her fingers. ‘Was there anything about the fight?’
Freda shook her head, then screamed as Edward brought his spade crashing down on her head. Evelyne jumped up and grabbed him, taking the spade from his chubby fist. ‘That was naughty, you apologize this instant to Auntie Freda! Edward, I mean it, say you’re sorry … Edward!’
Edward pursed his lips and glowered.
‘Right back to the house you go, my lad, and no more sandcastles today.’
Edward screamed and kicked at the sand in fury, his eyes black with anger. Evelyne chased him in circles on the beach until she eventually caught hold of him and dragged him back to face Freda. He wriggled free, then hurled himself into Freda’s arms. He kissed her cheek, holding her face in his small hands. ‘Kiss it better, kiss you better.’
Freda wrapped him in her arms, laughing. ‘Oh, Eddie, you have lady-killer eyes, you have … It’s all right, Auntie Freda forgives you, and I’m sure Mama will let you build another castle … Evie?’
Edward turned big, dark, innocent eyes on Evelyne and she gave a brief nod, then sat down next to Freda. They both watched him digging frantically, then he turned and gave them a wicked grin. Evelyne sighed. ‘You spoil him, you know, he gets away with too much — and don’t call him Eddie, I don’t like it, his name’s Edward.’
‘Okie-dokie, whatever you say, darlink. He had such a look of Freedom, the image of his father — the eyes, oh, what eyes.’
‘Well he won’t take after him, that’s for sure, I’ll not have him fighting, he’ll not be a fighter.’
Evelyne was staring; stony-faced, out to sea. She was so beautiful, her long red hair blowing in the breeze. Freda thought to herself, ‘With a mother and father so handsome, the world could be little Edward’s oyster.’
Ed had his hands full trying to keep Freedom’s spirit up, as well as frantically trying to arrange a bout he could go on to immediately. Then they had a stroke of luck — the massive Dane was knocked out by the French contender, Pierre Charles. This left the contender Monty Munn available, so the fight was arranged.
Freedom received a call from Dempsey, who gave him a talking-to. ‘Listen to me, Stubbs, I been KO’d more times than I been balled. Pick yaself up, show us what you got, ya hear me? Go, boy go!’
Ed also kept up a steady, encouraging patter, assuring Freedom that if he won the Monty Munn fight he would take on the number three man, none other than Johnny Risco. ‘They call him Rubber-legs. The man goes down and bounces back. Well, you get Monty down an’ you’ll bounce that Risco fella right outta the ring.’
Freedom went ten rounds with Munn, a tough fight, then got his famous punch in. Monty went down. Freedom’s confidence was restored, and Kearn and Rickard were now convinced of his potential beyond doubt. They began to play a minor part in promoting Freedom, but they were still holding back. In a private meeting with Sir Charles they told him they both felt it was too early for Freedom to take on Risco, he was not ready. They also had an eye on the gates, wanting to build Freedom’s name up.
The fight with Pierre Charles went ahead. This time Freedom had to go the full twenty rounds, and he won on points. Press reports began to feature Freedom Stubbs as a powerful contender for the title. The gates were also improving — money was coming in — and although deals had been set up between Sir Charles and the Golden Triangle, there was still a lot left in the purse for Freedom. But once again his hopes of getting closer to the championship were thwarted and another bout was arranged, this time in Chicago.
As always, Sir Charles kept his accounts with meticulous care, and all Freedom’s expenses were deducted. The boat fares, the hotel, the train, the plane rides, nothing was left out. Then there were Ed’s wages, taxes, the rent for the Miami villa, every dollar and cent was accounted for. Sir Charles, whose constant battles with the trustees of his estate made him only too aware of his cash flow, was miserly in many ways, but he astounded everyone by handing out huge tips. He would give with one hand and take with the other. Ed put it down to eccentricity, but Dempsey laughed, he put it down to his Lordship being ‘just a goddam tightass’.
Whatever the outcome of the finances, Ed made sure Freedom’s share was looked after, and to date they were, in his own word, ‘flush’. Ed was holding more than five thousand dollars for Freedom, in large bills in a money-belt round his rotund stomach. Freedom never questioned Ed about finances. In truth, he didn’t care. Being knocked out had marked him, and he was back in training with a vengeance. He never wanted to experience that humiliation again.
Ed had forgotten their, problems in Chicago. In New York Freedom was accepted as a gypsy, but in Chicago they were again refused admission to any of the best hotels. Freedom grew moodier than ever, and twice Ed had to hold him back from physically assaulting hotel clerks.
Most blacks in Chicago resided in the area known as the South Side, ranging from 30th to 39th Street, and there was a famous hotel, the Du Sable, on the corner of 39th and Cottage Grove Avenue. The Du was one of the most popular hotels for the black elite, where great jazz musicians rubbed elbows with black politicians, judges and lawyers. Duke Ellington and Count Basie often stayed there when playing theatres in downtown Chicago. The incongruous situation of being able to play there but not live there was a sore point. To Ed’s shame, Freedom moved into the Du while he himself stayed at the Lexington with Sir Charles. Freedom had joked about it, saying he didn’t give a damn what they wanted to think he was. Black or white, he was there to fight.
And he got a fight, not in the ring but outside a speakeasy. It started with Freedom and two black boxers he had met at the Du being barred from entering the speakeasy. The three boxers started slugging it out with the bouncers on the door, and the police were called. They were on a tough training schedule and Ed had assumed Freedom was resting, when he was summoned to the local police station. Along with his ‘brothers’, Freedom was put behind bars for the night. Sir Charles paid a heavy fine and made a large ‘donation’ to police funds to get
