One exhibition was given by each, for newspaper men only. Martinez was a little drawn, but showed much of his old-time speed and artistry in the two brief rounds he sparred. For the Viper’s first non-private demonstration, Willie Troy engaged four big hams who were to get fifty dollars apiece if Ivan floored them and nothing if he didn’t. They all earned their pay. But one or two of the hypercritical scribes remarked that the Russian seemed clumsy and slow.
“That’s in his favor,” said Troy quickly. “He looks like such a big, gawky bum that the other fella thinks he ain’t got nothing, and the next minute, the other fella is laying in the rosin not thinking at all.”
On the night of the fight, the big crowd gave Martinez a rousing cheer for old time’s sake. But they nearly tore the roof off the building with their welcome to the Viper. His appearance in street clothes had charmed them before. In the nearly nude, with a lady’s figure tattooed on each huge arm and a picture of the Easter Parade on the Nevsky Prospect at the corner of Fiftieth Street, Petrograd, covering his ample chest, he was nothing short of irresistible.
Yet the storm of applause and yells that marked his entrance was nothing compared with the pandemonium which followed his quick disposal of the former Rugged Rock, who, appearing mystified by Ivan’s clumsy, amateurish advance, stood perfectly still with his arms at his sides and received on the point of his jaw a carefully aimed right-hand swing that might easily have toppled Roxy’s Theater.
Manuel’s seconds did not wait for a count but climbed through the ropes and carried their unconscious burden to an exit where an ambulance was waiting to take him to a more comfortable bed than the one on which he had flopped so emphatically. And the gulls fought one another and trampled each other under foot in their mad scramble to get close to the new Killer, a foreigner with a punch that made Luis Ángel Firpo’s lethal thump seem like Mrs. Coolidge’s gentlest handshake.
Luke Lewis was riding on top of the world. Little difference did it make to him now whether or not the former champ, Jack Ryan, would consent to come out of his retirement. The Viper was a man who, matched with Beau Burton, would draw the fifty-million-dollar gate that had long been Luke’s dream. And the Viper would be the man to survive the remaining trials even if all the Fitzgeralds and Morans in New England had to be given an annuity. Fitchburg’s Fighting Fool and the Malden Murderer would open the outdoor season, the winner would be knocked for a loop by the Viper, probably early in July, and then it would only be necessary to lease acreage enough to seat 50,000 of America’s most distinguished oafs at a thousand dollars per oaf, for the grand September finale between Beau Burton and Ivan Ivanovitch in what—well, you could hardly call it less than the Battle of the Millennium.
A few details must be arranged. First, there must be a cancellation of a silly match between Fitzgerald, Moran’s New England rival, and Jimmy Donohue, the 170-pounder, who had suddenly become unreasonable and refused to promise to lie down unless he was sleepy. With this matter disposed of, it was deemed wise to assure the public that the Viper would be unable to fight again until he faced the Fitzgerald-Moran winner, for the reason that he could not get anyone to take the chance that had resulted in the death of the poor old Rugged Rock. Several “logical contenders” rose to deny this, but were not believed by a public gone Viper mad.
Came lovely May and the bout between the Fraternal Order of 200-pound New Englanders, a bout regarded in advance as a practical joke, but one which brought the Fighting Fool forward as a greatly improved athlete and an impressive winner over the Murderer from Malden. The Murderer, in fact, was sent to the chair in Round Five, using the crawl stroke to reach his destination.
In the papers of May 24 was a column story to the effect that Frankie Fitzgerald and Ivan Ivanovitch had been signed for the semifinal match in the big elimination tournament of heavyweights and that the match, for the privilege of fighting Beau Burton for the world’s championship, would take place on the evening of July 8.
On the evening of July 7, Sandy King, Luke Lewis’s dapper little press-agent, called up the number of Mabel Ives and was told by Mabel’s mother that Mabel had gone out driving; she didn’t know with whom or when she would be back. Sandy had made the same call and had received the same reply on innumerable previous evenings and had been growing more and more depressed.
Tonight his depression was so great that he felt nothing but a long taxi ride would relieve it. The taxi deposited his 123 pounds of youth and sartorial perfection at an address in the Bronx—the combination dwelling and gymnasium of Willie Troy.
The colored man who answered the door said the Viper had retired.
“He hasn’t retired yet,” said Sandy, “but he’s about to.”
Whereupon he brushed unceremoniously past the guard and found Ivan Ivanovitch alone in the living-room, trying to spell out some of the shorter words on the sporting page.
“Where’s my gal?” said Sandy.
“What do you mean?” asked the Viper.
“What I mean and who I mean is Mabel Ives,” replied Mr. King. “I know all about it.”
“Well,” said the Viper, “she’s went home. But if you knowed all about it, you wouldn’t be calling
