Page 86 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

The place as always, was teeming with working men, all determined to blow off steam in their precious down time. A good time for most of them meant the opportunity to forget their squalid living conditions for a few hours and the hard labor they submitted their bodies to in order to eke out their existence in this harsh world. What they really wanted was to forget reality for one night a week.

They wanted a pretty girl on their knee, a strong drink at their lips, and a good laugh. Clem had never had a problem catering to this. Well, the drink and the entertainment that is. He put plenty of pretty dancing girls up on the stage, but he was no pimp. There were ladies of easy virtue milling about the crowd, but they paid their admission same as everyone else and whatever else they provided on the side was no business of Clem’s.

The fact remained that The Eagle and Sun was a powder keg waiting to blow at any time. The determination, even desperation of their punters to find a good time, could go awry at any point. Wherever alcohol flowed freely, things could flare up quickly. It was inevitable that fights broke out every Friday and Saturday night, and sometimes other nights too.

This never bothered Clem, for he kept plenty of doormen on hand to break things up and sling people out on their ear. Coming from his fighting background, he knew plenty of brawlers who might not have been good enough to make their fortune in the ring but could more than hold their own in a skirmish.

Blood could be mopped off the floorboards the next morning and broken chairs replaced. He kept “the décor” of the place minimal. The walls were refreshed with paint every few months and the lighting was kept low. Early on, he had tried hanging a few gilded mirrors and fancy lamps, but once the first couple had been smashed, he had abandoned all such attempts. The Eagle and Sun was just not that kind of place. Later, when he got his hands on The Parthenon, he could indulge in such fripperies, but for now it was bare basics.

Usually, he felt entirely impervious to the atmosphere of the place, but tonight he was on edge. He felt jumpy and ill at ease. There was a good chance that if someone tapped him on the shoulder, he would wheel about and slug them right in the jaw. He was, he realized with surprise, primed for violence. It would almost be a relief to give vent to it at this point.

As soon as the crowd started to turn ugly, he wanted Dora off that stage and whisked into the safety of one of the backrooms. Maybe his office would be best, where he could give her whatever she needed to get over the shock of her rejection. A stiff drink, a good kissing, he did not care, whatever it took. He would give it to her, whatever the hell she wanted. So long as she picked herself up, he would dust her down and soothe her ruffled feathers.

Then he would encourage her to form some new ambitions. He was not sure precisely what shape these would take yet. Maybe some god-awful emporium where she could sell peculiar garments to clothing reformers, he thought with a hint of desperation. Anything she wanted, so long as she gave up chasing this damned fool dream of hers where she could only get hurt.

“’Ere, Clem.”

He turned abruptly. When Jim took a hasty step back, he realized he was glowering. “What is it?” he forced himself to relax his jaw enough to ask.

“Nat Jones is here,” Jim told him, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “I told him I’d let you know. He’s brought a few of the lads in wiv ‘im.”

Clem bit back his irritated response at the news some of his boxing brethren were present tonight of all nights. Usually, he comped them a few drinks and caught up with their news. He liked to keep his hand in, after all there was always a chance this entertainment lark could go belly up. There were businesses going bust almost every day somewhere in this city. Coming from nothing meant Clem always appreciated an alternative source of money to be held in reserve.

“I’m busy right now,” Clem said brusquely. At Jim’s surprised look, he added, “Dora’s on soon.”

Jim’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve never put ‘er on first?” he asked uncomfortably. “Like a lamb to the bleedin’ slaughter.”

Clem tensed. Jesus, he wasn’t that cruel. “No, she’s on third. After Collins and Farmont.” Jim pursed his lips disapprovingly. “It’s best she gets it over with,” Clem heard himself point out. “Then she’s got the rest of the night to recover.” Why was he even justifying his actions? She was his damned wife at the end of the day.

His old friend blew out his cheeks. “If you say so,” he muttered belligerently. Clearly, Jim did not agree with his outlook.

“As soon as … things start to go south, I want her off that stage, do you hear me? Have Eddie and Sam down the front, ready to hustle her off,” he said naming his two most formidable bouncers.

“Where are you going to be?” Jim looked faintly indignant as though he thought Clem was shirking his duties, though whether as husband or manager, he was not sure.

Clem glared back at him. “Around,” he said succinctly, and turned on his heel leaving Jim frowning in the aisle.

In truth, Clem did not know where best he should be situated when Dora spectacularly failed. Perhaps it would be easier all round if he did not witness it. She could likely forgive him better if he had not observed her fall from grace. Then too there was the fact that he felt slightly murderous about anyone heckling her. It would not do for him to forget himself and get involved in a punch-up with his own customers.

Still, he wanted to be close at hand. In the end, he compromised by lurking at the back of the hall, determined to plunge in and out at will with an ear cocked for the moment the crowd turned ugly. Then he would sprint back in there and whisk her away.

He managed pretty much to follow this plan through the first two acts, though his palms were clammy, and he was not sure, but it felt like sweat was breaking out on his top lip as Larry the announcer gave his spiel about a new act debuting that night. Clem swallowed hard and turned, emerging into the corridor outside where he closed his eyes briefly and stood, breathing deep, striving for a modicum of calm.

“You alright, Clem m’boy?”

Clem turned at the unwelcome greeting, recognizing the tones as those of Nat Jones. Sure enough, the fight promoter’s flamboyant figure stood before him in a pale blue frock coat, seemingly oblivious to the fact that nearly all of London now exclusively wore evening wear of deepest black.

Nat surveyed him with eyebrows lifted as he held out his hand. “You look a little green around the gills.” Clem took his hand in a firm grasp, and they shook hands. “Heavy night last night?” Nat eyed him shrewdly. “You have the look of a man who’s suffering the aftereffects.”

“Nothing like that,” Clem replied, wishing his old acquaintance would go to the devil. Nat looked like he had something up his sleeve and really, talking business right now was the last thing Clem wanted.

“I asked Jim to tell you I’d looked in, but maybe he did not get the chance,” the other responded affably. “Glad I ran into you as I wanted to put something to you,” Nat continued, and Clem nodded as his ears picked up on a smattering of laughter. He stiffened, listening hard, but of course, from out here, he could not discern the nature of the crowd’s amusement. He pictured Dora nervous or stumbling awkward on the stage and felt his stomach lurch.

“… I told him what you were up to these days,” Nat continued easily. “Said as how he’d always had a fancy to see you in the ring with Stevens and was disappointed that never came to pass before your unofficial retirement …”

Clem nodded again. “Oh aye,” he murmured. Another gale of laughter. He turned his head sharply and concentrated. Were they laughing along with or at the object of fun? That was the question.

“… so I told him I would put it to you, though I could not guarantee you would be interested in such a bout. It’s good money though Clem. I thought, under the circumstances—”