Chapter Text
Christmas Eve: Brooklyn, New York
The year was 1903, and Dungannon’s Athletic Club buzzed with male voices and anticipation. Liquor and conversation flowed freely and cigar smoke hung heavy in the air, but these indulgences weren’t enough to dissipate the hunger that seethed under the skin of every man present, hot and bright enough to burn away the winter chill riming the club’s sandstone walls. It wasn’t the holiday they anticipated so keenly, nothing so saccharine and warm as the trappings and merriment associated with Yuletide. Fine suits and gentlemen’s chatter concealed a terrible reality, loathsome and perverse but undeniable all the same. Men at their basest, their most primeval, desired sweat and blood and conquest by way of exquisite, dreadful violence.
Yes, it was violence these men craved, and it was violence they would get. The club’s proprietor, a genteel Irishman named Barry Monaghan, knew these facts intimately. He stood amidst his peers (he was not foolish enough to call them friends) and nursed a finger of whiskey, watching as the club’s bookmaker flitted amongst Dungannon’s clientele, taking bets, calculating odds, and enhancing the atmosphere with talk of the impending match. Good. More excitement meant more money changing hands, and the more money changed hands, the more money found its way into Monaghan’s pocket.
Standing at Monaghan’s right side, Nick Carmody peeled himself off the bar, pulled a cigar from his mouth, and cleared his throat. “You think he’s ready?”
“What does it matter?” Monaghan asked, casting him a sidelong glance. “You’ll get paid all the same.”
“There’s more at stake here than money,” Carmody pointed out. “If he don’t fight good, it’s bad for business, ain’t it?”
Carmody was annoying, Monaghan decided. He would have to remember to assign him a distasteful neighborhood, one far away from where Monaghan held court. He looked around at his guests, all of them members at his club, and smiled. “I don’t see any bad business here, Mr. Carmody.”
As much as their primal selves might have desired to, these men would not instigate acts of violence themselves—they had families to feed, pretenses to maintain—and thus elected to instead bear witness to violence committed by others. By abstaining from the bloody act itself, spectators could maintain a degree of moral and social superiority. It pleased these men inordinately to experience the psychosomatic release triggered by the crunch of bone against bone—the baring of teeth, exchange of blood, and the establishment of hierarchy through the intricate rituals of hand-to-hand combat.
Under this roof, men were not rich or poor, colored or white, Democrat or Republican. They all spoke the same barbarous tongue and saw the same crimson hue behind their eyelids. It was what united them, inflamed them, and most importantly, it was what kept Monaghan’s pockets lined with cold, hard cash.
The crowd gathered around the central focus of the evening clamored excitedly as the club’s announcer stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“Good evening, gentlemen, and welcome to Dungannon’s! You fellas are in for a good time, indeed! You’ve got a night full of thrilling entertainment ahead of you, starting with a last-minute addition to the roster. A newcomer is to face off against an old favorite: Who will come out on top? Don’t forget to place your wagers, lads—this is bound to be a bloody match!”
Obviously aggrieved at being dismissed, Carmody merely grunted and sipped his whiskey. Monaghan, however, watched keenly as men on both sides of the ring parted to allow the fighters to duck under the ropes. Neither competitor yet possessed the means to hire a manager or cornerman, but more than one member of Dungannon’s Athletic Club had ties with eminent names in the boxing business—for the winner, this fight could be the ticket to bigger and better opportunities. One of the pugs bore a familiar face, weathered, square-jawed, and flinty-eyed as he stalked into the ring with practiced ease, scowling at spectators like they’d done him personal wrong.
“Gentlemen of Dungannon’s Athletic Club, please welcome to the ring…Mighty Mike Roseingrave!”
Onlookers cheered and stamped their feet; Mighty Mike Roseingrave was, as the announcer had mentioned, an old favorite at Dungannon’s, as well as at other underground boxing clubs in the borough. He did not have to work hard to draw in crowds. The cheering intensified to thunderous volumes as Roseingrave thrusted his fists in the air and bellowed ferociously. He turned in a slow circle, doused in the harsh white light of the carbon arc lamp suspended overhead, and basked in his admirers’ adulation.
The announcer let the commotion go on for a suitable amount of time before raising his other arm to introduce Roseingrave’s opponent.
“And now for the challenger—well, come on up here, son! We ain’t payin’ you to stand there and look pretty. Why don’t we give him some encouragement, folks?”
A round of scattered applause broke out as Roseingrave’s adversary ducked under the ropes and joined the announcer and Roseingrave in the center of the ring. Both boxers were of similar height and weight, though Monaghan knew the second pug introduced was younger and far less experienced than the first. The challenger’s easy, limber grace contrasted sharply with Roseingrave’s stalwart power, but there was no mistaking the keen look in his eye, the brisk intelligence and discernment of someone thrice his age. Regardless, neither boxer was dull, crippled, or severely malnourished, which was all good news. An imbalanced fight was quick, boring, and unprofitable.
“Hailing from across the Bridge, I present to you all for the first time…the Lower East Side’s own Jack Kelly!”
The man named Jack Kelly didn’t shout or pump his fists or even smile. He didn’t interact with the crowd at all, except to assess each of them with a glance both perfunctory and incisive. His gaze leapt from face to face like a flat rock skipping over still water until, at last, his eyes landed on Monaghan and stayed there, locked on him with predatory focus. Despite his apparent youth, Kelly possessed the rough, wary countenance of someone who’d already lived a long, hard life. His hair, tousled and dark, was in need of a trim, and the gray hollows engulfing his eyes bespoke a persistent lack of sleep, but he was still a strong, good-looking kid. It was no wonder Pulitzer’s daughter had taken a fancy to him. Whatever his outward appearance might’ve been, Monaghan was confident Jack Kelly would put on a good show.
All of these thoughts and more ran through Monaghan’s head as he regarded Jack Kelly, who practically glowed under the arc lamp’s blinding light. Radiant youth juxtaposed with Roseingrave’s ecliptical menace. Without breaking eye contact, Monaghan lifted his glass in Kelly’s direction and smiled.
Jack Kelly, of course, had the nerve to smile back.