Free Black Hats by Patrick Culhane Page B

to have read the Police Gazette .
    Wyatt had.
    Even with the Garden’s history of carnage, the boxing match seemed at odds with the structure’s fussy pink rococo interior. But once inside the vast arena itself (first erected, Bat said, for horse shows), clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke compensated, as did loud enthusiastic fight fans, peddlers of roasted peanuts and hot dogs, and ringside seats. Tiers of balconies on all four sides were draped red-white-and-blue, while high over the ring, under skylights, black bell-shaped speakers emitted occasional, largely unintelligible announcements.

    Wyatt sat between Bat and a thin, thin-lipped, grave-featured chain-smoker whose brown hair was shellacked back and who wore wirerim glasses behind which yet another pair of pale blue eyes lurked.
    “Wyatt, this is my friend Al Runyon,” Bat said, over the arena din. “Al, this is Wyatt Earp who I’ve told you about.”
    Cigarette clenched tight in the slash of his mouth, Runyon nodded and Wyatt shook hands with him, a quick, solid shake.
    Bat leaned in and whispered: “Kid’s a big booster of yours. A real fan. He writes under his middle name—‘Damon.’ Maybe you’ve seen his work.”
    Wyatt had indeed read Runyon’s sports columns. The dude was well known nationally as a real expert on baseball, boxing and the ponies. And Runyon was a dude: the columnist’s suit, a natty light brown plaid, was without a wrinkle and his floral tie bore a diamond stickpin. He was poised to take notes with a hand that bore a huge pinky ring.
    Wyatt said to the “kid” (who was around forty), “Read your stuff. It’s good.”
    Runyon, deadpan, flicked Wyatt a look, and the cigarette bob-bled as he said, “Thanks,” then returned his attention to the ring, where the fighters were already in their respective corners and an announcer with a megaphone was wandering between them.
    That was the extent of the conversation between Wyatt and his “big fan.”
    The fight was a good one, two heavyweights, Billy Miske—who had given champ Jack Dempsey a run at it in two hard battles—and another real contender, Bill Brennan.
    Bat, however, wasn’t impressed with either man, and between rounds said to Wyatt, “Your prime, you could’ve taken out either one of these bums.”
    Then Bat leaned across Wyatt to say to Runyon, “Al, you’re sitting next to the best natural boxer I ever saw. Known him since the early ’70s, and nobody could scrap with his fists like this feller.”
    Wyatt said slowly, “Bartholomew….”
    Bat ignored that, still leaning. “Few men in the West could whip Wyatt in a rough-and-tumble, forty years ago, and I think he could give these youngsters a hard tussle even today.”
    Runyon’s eyes tightened behind the wireframes, he nodded a little, and he returned his attention to the bout as the bell clanged.
    “These guys are genuine tango experts,” Bat said bitterly.
    But Wyatt thought it was a pretty good scrap, a view highlighted by them sitting close enough to feel the flying flecks of sweat and blood.
    Between the next rounds, Wyatt asked Bat, “What do you know about this kid Caponi who’s giving Doc’s boy a bad time?”

    Bat nodded toward Runyon. “Ask Al—he’s an expert on these hoodlum types.”
    Without looking at them, Runyon said, “It’s Capone, not Caponi. One of Yale’s crew. He’s a comer.”
    Wyatt asked, “Tough?”
    Runyon, lighting up his latest cigarette, nodded.
    Brennan knocked Miske down in the seventh round, and while the ref stood over the fallen fighter counting him loudly out, Bat admitted, “That gets him closer to a match with the Mauler, who will murder him.”
    This was a reference to Dempsey’s nickname, the Manassa Mauler. Wyatt was pretty sure Runyon had coined that moniker, but didn’t ask for confirmation.
    Bat hadn’t taken a single note during the fight, maybe because he’d already written his next column; but Runyon had filled half a notebook, writing