Champion of the World

Description

A Boston Globe Best Book of the Year

In this stunning historical fiction debut set in the world of wrestling in the 1920s, a husband and wife are set adrift in a place where everyone has something to hide and not even the fights can be taken at face value.

Late summer, 1921: Disgraced former lightweight champion Pepper Van Dean has spent the past two years on the carnival circuit performing the dangerous “hangman’s drop” and taking on all comers in nightly challenge bouts. But when he and his cardsharp wife, Moira, are marooned in the wilds of Oregon, Pepper accepts an offer to return to the world of wrestling as a trainer for Garfield Taft, a down-and-out African American heavyweight contender in search of a comeback and a shot at the world title.

At the training camp in rural Montana, Pepper and Moira soon realize that nothing is what it seems: not Taft, the upcoming match, or the training facility itself. With nowhere to go and no options left, Pepper and Moira must carefully navigate the world of gangsters, bootlegging, and fixed competitions, in the hope that they can carve out a viable future.

A story of second chances and a sport at the cusp of major change, Champion of the World is a wonderful historical debut from a new talent in fiction.Praise for Champion of the World

“A riveting novel about hardheaded men, tough women, and even tougher times in Prohibition America. It’s difficult to believe Chad Dundas’s CHAMPION OF THE WORLD is a debut novel—so fluid is it’s plot movement, so sure the narrative…slyly ambitious…one of the most wonderfully controlled displays of storytelling by a new author in recent memory. Besides the page-turning momentum and thrilling set pieces, Dundas’s novel has an almost sweet melancholy. So many of the characters are searching for redemption… When the betrayals, failures, and mishaps come, they’re surprising and at times brutal, as merciless in their own way as that greatest of culprits here, the slow slipping away of time.”—O Magazine

“A well written, engaging tale that reads like a beautiful grappling match between experienced and will trained athletes. Dundas has worked a tale that is intricate and intense with the call and response feeling of watching an excellent athletic contest. With twists and turns that are unexpected yet flow naturally, Champion keeps the reader entranced and curious throughout.”—Missoulian

“With crisp, muscular prose, this 470-page historical novel illuminates a time of rapid change in America.”—Poets & Writers

“Champion of the World, a terrific debut novel from Chad Dundas, is about professional wrestling in the early 1920s, when the sport wasn’t unabashedly fake the way it is today. But you don’t have to be a wrestle-maniac to enjoy it. If you appreciate great storytelling and dynamic characters, this book is going to satisfy… [Dundas] writes exciting action sequences. But his real gift is in making 1920s America and the people who populate it come vibrantly alive. In his hands, Champion of the World is an extraordinary trip through time to a culture very different from our own — never does it feel like a dry history textbook.”—Fort Worth Star-Telegram

“At first glance, Champion of the World is a novel about wrestling in the 1920s. But what’s that saying about the tip of the iceberg?”—Portland Oregonian

“Dundas puts the gritty, unpleasant realities of the opening decades of the twentieth century on display, offering something of an implicit critique of the prevailing attitudes of Americans, both then and now. Wrestling fans with a penchant for history will relish the details woven into Champion of the World….Through his compelling and artful construction of Champion of the World, Dundas effectively provides wrestling fans with our own equivalent of folk heroes like Paul Bunyan and John Henry….For its unique content, vivid storytelling, and noteworthy attention to detail, we award Champion of the World five out of five suplexes.”—Pro Wrestling Illustrated

“Champion of the World is window into wrestling history… The story ties in bootleggers, con men and wrestling poised to make a fundamental change from the sport of presidents (at least in their younger days) and common men alike to what would eventually become the antics of WWE (formerly called the World Wrestling Federation).”—Great Falls Tribune

“You can count the truly great sports novels on two hands and have fingers to spare. Wrestling, the sport of kings, has never had one-until now. Bleacher Report’s lead MMA writer Chad Dundas has done the impossible. He has written a book about professional wrestling that appeals not only to fans of the grappling arts, but to sophisticated readers who wouldn’t know a wristlock from a wrist watch.”— Bleacher Report

 “Longtime MMA journalist Chad Dundas has written one of the great debut novels of 2016 in Champion of the World. The novel is an engaging tale of carnivals, gangsters, bootlegging, race relations, decisions, deception, attempted redemption, tragedy and life. It’s a spectacular piece of writing, which even before publication was seeing Dundas compared to American greats such as Cormac McCarthy and Jim Thompson – and justifiably so.”— MMA Junkie

“Dundas puts together a tightly woven piece of storytelling punctuated by some intriguing close-ups of wrestling when it was taken seriously. . . . [The] last [twist is] a doozy with a demon ex machina even nastier than the mobsters. Centered on the sweet-tough relationship of Pepper and his card shark wife, Moira, and enriched by a wrestling history that contrasts sharply with today’s circus, the novel has the feel of noir but is rounder and richer than a Jim Thompson outing. Dundas suggests writers known for loosely historical works, such as Doctorow and Chabon, but he features a pared-down, punchy style that goes well with his characters’ basic raw ambitions and emotions.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“A brilliant novel about life—and sport—at the cusp of the modern age, Champion of the World follows a down-and-out couple as they struggle to survive on their wits alone. Reminiscent of the best of early Cormac McCarthy, but with compelling female characters.”—Philipp Meyer, New York Times-bestselling author of The Son and American Rust

“Champion of the World is a debut with the masterful breadth and insight of a veteran talent’s work. The confluence of a sport and entertainment, gambling and gangsterism is illuminated on every page, as Chad Dundas burrows into the tangled roots of American wrestling. Tragic and by turns hopeful, Champion of the World is a showcase bout full of reversals, grit, and spirit.”—Smith Henderson, author of Fourth of July Creek

“Here’s one of the finest first novels in years, a gritty tale involving professional wrestling, bootlegging, and the byzantine strategies of cold-blooded conmen and desperate grifters. If the subject matter strikes you as too quirky, think again. My advice to anyone who loves brilliant storytelling is this: read Chad Dundas’s Champion of the World.”—Jeff Guinn, New York Times-bestselling author of The Last Gunfight

“Chad Dundas’s novel Champion of the World sets us squarely down in 1921 and brings it vividly to life.  Moira and Pepper Van Dean feel like a real couple. The tense buildup to the wrestling matches is outstanding, and the pleasure of the matches themselves is that their outcome cannot be predicted.  A terrific debut.”—David Fuller, author of Sundance 

“Smart and flinty, Chad Dundas’s archetypal debut is a sprawling, brawling yarn populated by gangsters and carnies, bootleggers, hucksters and early-day wrestlers—characters who, in their irresistibility, fairly drag you along by the throat through page after compelling page.  A piercing and at times heart-rending examination of the universal quest to reach our own championship, be it the big pay-day, enduring love, or mere survival in a ruthless world.”—Kim Zupan, author of The Ploughmen

“Champion of the World is professional wrestling of the 1920s in full roar. It bristles with heroes, schemes, bootleggers, shysters, twists, romance, and excitement. Dundas knows wrestling, scene-making and a good plot. The result is this vivid and cinematic portrait of a sport, and a culture, in flux.”—Deirdre McNamer, author of One Sweet Quarrel and Red Rover Chad Dundas earned his MFA from the University of Montana, and his short fiction has appeared in the Beloit Fiction Journal, Sycamore Review, Sou’Wester, and Thuglit. Since 2001, he’s worked as a sportswriter for national outlets including ESPN, NBC Sports, Sporting News, Bleacher Report, and the Associated Press, as well as local and regional newspapers. A fourth-generation Montanan, he lives with his wife and children in Missoula.One
The clowns came to get him when it was time for the hanging.
            He met them outside his trailer; a half dozen of them all dressed like cops, looking soiled and road-weary in their baggy blue uniforms, soda siphons hanging from their belts instead of guns and cuffs. No one spoke as they walked him down to the gallows, moving through the narrow alleys between the powerhouse trucks, costume tents and animal cages, heading for the spot on the infield grass where the white tops of the carnival’s seven performance pavilions lifted like billowing clouds. With ten minutes left before intermission a few of the candy butchers had already returned their covered pushcarts to the backyard area. They stood leaning against them, smoking cigarettes in orange and white coveralls, bored expressions on their faces. At the backdoor of the big tent he stopped to bounce a minute on his toes, a light dappling of rain blowing in off the bay, pricking up goose pimples on his bare arms and legs.
One of the clowns made a sour face.  “You all right?” His lipstick smile almost touching the corners of his eyes. “You’re looking a little chunky.”
He ignored it but the truth was, he was overweight. The night before, the ache in his bad leg had kept him up, and after the two-and-a-half-hour jump from Monterey to San Francisco, he snuck down to the pie car and ate three pickles wrapped in ham. The pickles tasted good but didn’t fill him up, so he’d had a square of apple cobbler for dessert. He shouldn’t have done that, and in the morning forced himself to vomit before spending an hour jogging around the backyard area in a heavy overcoat. Now, as he stood there surrounded by the clowns, his belly was empty, and cold fear gripped his heart. He hoped he wasn’t about to go out there and break his goddamn neck.
Through a slit in the curtain he could see the horse opera was almost over. For nearly ninety minutes the sparse crowd in the infield bleachers had cheered the evening performance of the Markham & Markham Overland Carnival. They’d seen clowns and contortionists, trapeze artists and tight ropers, a hypnotist, a strongman, and a guy in a top hat who built a pyramid out of dogs. Now, as the Fabulous Texas Trick Riders of the Loose Deuce Ranch urged their mounts over a series of jumps for the big finale, people squirmed in their seats. Handkerchiefs were pressed to brows, a low murmur of bored chitchat meandering through the stands as fathers pulled out their watches and younger guys passed bottles on the sly.
The carnival’s horn players trumpeted the trick riders’ closing number and the horses blew past him in a dusty stampede of sequins, silk and fringed buckskin. He closed his eyes against the grit, letting the breeze ripple his cape, savoring the smell of the rain and the clean, lush scent of ball field grass.
Pepper Van Dean had no great love for stick and ball games. During his time as lightweight wrestling champion of the world he’d met his share of ballplayers and found most of them to be soft, shiftless men. Now as he stood there waiting to go out to be hanged, he suddenly felt a stab of envy, knowing some of those guys made five thousand dollars a year playing a child’s game. What a life it must be, he thought, to spend your afternoons chasing a ball around the lawn, consenting to play only if the weather suited you. For years his brand of chewing tobacco had featured a picture of Honus Wagner under the cap. He wondered how much a guy got paid for something like that. Moira would probably know.
“I should’ve been a ballplayer,” he said quietly, his eyes still closed, his toes wiggling inside his soft black boots.
“Shit,” the clown spat. “You and me both, asshole.”
When he finally looked, the stadium had gone quiet and a pair of stagehands in black executioner’s hoods were wheeling the towering gallows frame to the center of the tent. Once it was in place, Boyd Markham himself strolled out and posed in the hot island of a spotlight. Markham was a heavy man with a rolling wave of silver hair, and he wore his signature blood-red carnation pinned to the lapel of a slippery tuxedo. Underneath, the silver of his silk brocade vest exactly matched his immaculate bowtie. He pressed his mouth close to a freestanding microphone, filling the tent with a hushed reverence, the audience leaning forward to hear his words over the distant hum of the powerhouse trucks.
            “Those of you familiar with physical culture may think you know this next act,” he said. “Those of you who are mere neophytes have no doubt still heard rumors of it, as its reputation precedes it throughout the civilized world. Indeed, a version of this daring deed has been attempted by a number of other performers with other, lesser traveling shows, sometimes with disastrous consequences.”
            A nervous titter moved through the crowd, but the ringmaster silenced it by bringing his voice up a notch. “Martin Burns!” he said, and the name drew some scattered applause. “Rabbit Farnum! You may even recall headlines announcing the tragic death of the strongman Enoch Hughes, who lost his life attempting a similar gambit some years ago. Indeed, this courageous feat of athletic prowess has been tried by other men in other towns. Unfortunately it is my duty to inform you that most of these men are no more than charlatans, and their various renditions of the performance required little more than simple sleight of hand. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, you will see no gimmicks, no tricks, no illusionist’s hoax. Simply put, what you are about to observe here this evening inside this humble cathedral of athletic performance will be the most amazing display of raw strength and boundless endurance that you will see in all your lives. Why? Because we believe you deserve nothing less than the best right here,” a pause, “in the great city of San Francisco!”
He basked for a moment in the cheers, the patient politician waiting out the adoring masses, smiling and nodding while the crowd revved itself up.
            “As your humble chaperone this evening it is my duty to inform you that what comes next is not for the weak of stomach or faint of heart. Those who are easily disturbed or have small children in attendance may want to excuse yourselves to the midway, or to our splendid gaming and merchandise pavilions. Those of you who choose to remain will no doubt stand witness to something that will stay with you throughout all your years. I assure you, it has had a similar effect on me.”
            He shielded his eyes from the spot and peered into the crowd, where no one was making for the exits. “Very well,” he said, nodding to someone in the wings. Another spotlight faded up at stage left, revealing the quartet of horn players standing beneath a banner that read, “Master of the Hangman’s Drop!” in three-foot purple script. 
“Enough preamble,” the ringmaster said. “Please join me in welcoming the indestructible, unkillable man himself! The former lightweight wrestling champion of the world! Ladies and gentlemen, clap your hands for the master of the hangman’s drop! The immortal Pepper Van Dean!”
The horn players blasted out a Ta-da! as the clowns pulled back the curtain. They all walked out together, blinded for a moment by the heat and light. The polite applause turned to cheers as Pepper suddenly burst free of the clowns, sending them toppling in a heap, and jogged around the ring, raising a hand to wave at everyone and no one. As he came to the front he whipped off his cape and gave them all a good look at him in just his boots and wrestling tights.
He was a small man, all bone and gristle, his legs a little too short, his arms a little too long. His neck was so thick and powerful that it seemed to swallow up his shoulders. Cords of muscles rippled in it as he turned his head one way, then the other. Without warning, he spun and bent backward, balancing like a crab on the crown of his head, rolling and stretching his neck from side to side before kipping-up to his feet.
One of the stagehands came forward with a pair of handcuffs, holding them up for all to see, drawing the appropriate oohs and ahhs as he jerked Pepper’s arms behind his back and led him around to the gallows. Once they’d climbed the steps to the platform, Boyd Markham strolled over, silver hair and dark suit shining, microphone now cupped in his hand. “Mr. Van Dean,” he said. “Any final words?”
             “Well,” Pepper said, voice cracking so badly he had to clear his throat and begin again. “Well, I’d just like to say,” taking some time to think it over, “God Bless America. I hope everyone had a great Fourth of July and, if I don’t see you, have a good Thanksgiving, a merry Christmas and a happy New Year, too.”
            Some chuckles from the crowd.
“Is that all?” Markham asked, a tease in his voice.
            Pepper swallowed hard. “Anybody got a drink?”
            It was the summer of 1921, and prohibition jokes killed. One of the stagehands produced a third black hood from his pocket and tugged it over Pepper’s head—his world suddenly flushed into darkness—before dragging him back a few steps to the middle of the platform. His feet stumbling and scraping across the wood. Inside the hood, it smelled like mildew and old sweat. Though he couldn’t see, he knew by heart what happened next. The stagehands stood him on his mark and slipped the noose, fat and deadly, over his head. Two more men in executioner’s hoods brought torches out from the back and planted them in the dirt on either side of the gallows. The spotlights dimmed and the torches bathed them all in a pale glow.
“Enough pretense,” Markham announced. “Shall we put this man out of his misery?” The crowd cheered. “Okay boys,” he said to the stagehands. “Let’s do it.”
            Pepper sucked in a gulp of air and held it, pinching his eyes shut. He couldn’t hear the crowd or the rumble of the powerhouse trucks or the crackle of the torches. Just his own breathing inside the hood. Footsteps moved across the platform as the stagehands approached a large red lever at one side of the gallows. He drew himself up as straight as he could, locking the muscles in his neck, back and shoulders, imagining Markham raising a hand to shoulder level, holding the crowd’s attention like Cesar deciding the fate of a defeated gladiator. Long moments now, and he cleared his mind, thinking only, as he always did, of Moira’s face just as Markham chopped his hand downward with a dramatic twist.
The stagehands pulled the lever and the trap door fell out from under him. He dropped like a shot, three feet, and jerked stiff, the tent quiet except for the clatter of the trap door and snap of the rope. The horn players blasted another triumphant Ta-da!, but Pepper didn’t move. A few moments of murmured confusion passed, and then the players tooted it again. Ta-da! Nothing. His body just hung there, still. 
Whispers spread through the audience as the stagehands ran down the steps and under the platform. Markham jogged over. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.
Another group of stagehands sprinted out carrying a stretcher, trailed by a man in a white doctor’s coat, a black bag in his hand. Markham leapt up and tore off Pepper’s hood, revealing his pallid, frozen face.  A horrified gasp echoed through the stadium. Parents covered their children’s eyes. Men grumbled to each other, not sure if they should get up and leave. Then the stage lights winked out, leaving only the rippling torches.
Somewhere far off, an elephant trumpeted.
In the dark, a woman screamed.

 
Two
The longshoreman was dressed for an evening on the town, in a leather vest emblazoned with the seal of his union chapter and a silver bear claw belt buckle holding up herringbone slacks. His red hair hung loose to his shoulders, and the single gold tooth in his mouth glinted under the lights each time he won a hand of five-card poker. With the big clock in the gaming pavilion creeping up on half past seven, Moira Van Dean folded a pair of kings and let him take down a lukewarm pot with the tens she knew he had hidden. As he raked another stack of chips into his lap, the longshoreman blew her a kiss.
Some men just didn’t know how to win without making a spectacle of themselves.
For the first half of her shift, she had managed to make nice, letting the longshoreman win hand after hand without so much as a knowing laugh or an oh, I do declare. This, though, was too much. As the next hand began, she showed him the honest, square-john grin she knew was best for taking people’s money, and he looked back like he wanted to sink his teeth into her.
“Now the little lady is ready to play cards,” he announced, as if they were all about to watch a monkey try to tie its shoes.
The rest of the sleepy-eyed drunks slouching around the table chuckled along with him, each of them watching her with the usual mix of boredom and animal lust. She wasn’t fooling anyone. In her apricot evening gown and beaded amber necklace, they knew she was the carnival shill. They all thought she was there to keep them company and to see that the carnival got its five percent rake out of every pot. In truth, her job was more about making sure the action at the table didn’t lag, that chips moved from one side of the table to the other at a brisk pace, and that they all continued ordering the watered-down highballs the carnival sold in paper soft drink cups for fifty cents apiece.
Any money she collected went back to the carnival’s kitty, so her job was also to win a few hands from time to time—just not so many that it disrupted the game or the man gave up. In addition, she was there to cut any company losses, to make sure nobody won too much money. If one of these dockworkers and two-bit grinders proved sharp enough to put together a big stack of chips, Moira was tasked with winning some of it back. It was not challenging work. Once the evening performance got underway across the carnival lot, only the worst men remained inside the gaming pavilion. It would take a team of plough horses to drag any of them away before all their money was gone.
 Gaming pavilion was what employees of the Markham & Markham Overland Carnival were required to call it, though it was really just a weathered, twenty-by-twenty canvas tent battened by yellowing sidewalls and domed in the middle with a thick wooden stake. It smelled of damp wool and trampled grass, the ground cold under her open-toed shoes. Electric lights were set up on poles in all four corners and under the clamor of the men drinking and writhing and giving away their savings, you could hear them buzzing.
The game was standard stud poker. Each player got five cards—three up, two down—with a series of betting rounds between. By the time the dealer got three cards into the next hand, most of the men at the table had folded, leaving just Moira and the longshoreman to play heads-up. The dealer flopped the longshoreman a jack of clubs as his fourth card, and when he bet on it like a bull charging for a matador’s cape, Moira fought down a smirk. One look at the longshoreman’s drunken, bloodshot eyes told her he had a hand he liked. She signaled the dealer by putting both her elbows on the table and the dealer gave her the high sign to fold, idly touching the knot of his necktie with the tips of his fingers. Before she made a move, she chewed a fingernail and let her eyes stray nervously around the table, wanting the men to think she was uncertain. Finally, painfully, with her head tipped slightly to one side and her mouth pinched in a regretful scowl, she pushed in her cards.
“Fold,” she said.
The longshoreman made a clucking sound with his tongue and swept up another meager pot. “Cowardly,” he said.
She bit her lip. She wanted to tell him she knew he was holding at least one more jack, that he had her pair of fours beat all to hell, but instead she just frowned into her lap. The longshoreman flipped his cards to show off three-of-a-kind, and she clamped her hand over her mouth, wide-eyed, hamming it up. The men shifted in their seats, embarrassed for her, and as the dealer began to shuffle again they busied themselves counting their chips, congratulating the longshoreman with the looks of men who believed it should have been them.
“For your trouble,” the longshoreman said, plucking a twenty-five cent chip from his stack and flicking it across the felt at her.
When she explained to him she was not allowed to take tips from players, the longshoreman sneered. “Take it as a loan,” he said, letting the chip lie. “When I bust you maybe we can work out some of repayment.”
Right then, she should’ve taken her chips and walked away. She could’ve let one of the other girls take over the poker table and switched to dice or even blackjack. It would’ve been the smart move, but sometimes the card player in her got the better of her good sense.
She won the next three hands without looking up from her cards, ignoring the dealer when he touched his tie knot. Grumbling, a couple of the other men decided to take their chips to a different table, and underneath the skirt of the tablecloth, the dealer kicked her in the shin. She promised herself she would fold the next hand, but when her first two cards were a pair of queens, she felt the stir of good fortune in her belly. She couldn’t fold two queens. Again, she blew through the dealer’s fold sign, playing her hand slow and careful, trapping the longshoreman into making a big bet on the final round.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, girlie,” he said, fingers playing idly at his belt buckle.
Just for show, she checked her hole cards one last time. “My, my,” she said. “What’s a nice girl like me doing with a hand like this?”
When the longshoreman saw her queens, black hatred spread over his face. From a shoulder sling under his vest he pulled out a short, bone-handled dagger and began using it to clean his fingernails. The sight of the blade twisted her stomach, and the snub-nosed pistol she had strapped over her ankle suddenly felt as hot as a lump of coal. She tried to catch the dealer’s eye, but now he was steadfastly avoiding her gaze. She crossed her legs and eased the gun out of its holster.
When there was trouble at the tables, it reassured her to think of her father bellied-up and dealing a card game in his pinstriped shirt with garters around the elbows. By the time Moira came along, her father had already ditched the pinched nasal accent of his Pennsylvania upbringing in favor of the soft drawl of a riverboat card dealer. Even as a little girl she understood he was the sort of man women adored. Casino cocktail girls made sure his drink was always full. Men liked him too, drawn to his easy manner and dry wit. Most of the time he could cool out a sore loser or broke drunkard armed with just his smile and a handful of complimentary chips.
“I’m just the middleman,” he told her on the first night she worked running ice in the casino ballroom, age twelve. “My job is to make it as painless as possible for people while I empty their pockets.”
Now, she tried to put some of that faux southern hospitality into her voice as she batted her eyes at the longshoremen and said, “Surely there’s no need for that. Stow that thing away and let us refill your drink on the house.”
He ignored her, puckering up to blow a speck of grime off the tip of his knife. She looked around for a roustabout or a pit boss, but all the men had gone out to the big tent to help with the show. There was nothing to do but play the next hand, and by the time four more cards had been dealt, the other men got out of their way and it was just the two of them again.
“I fold,” Moira said, without even bothering to look at her hole cards.
“You got the best hand,” the longshoreman protested. “You don’t fold the best hand.”
            She eyed his cards across the table and then sighed at him, this stupid man. “You’re chasing a straight,” she said, “but you’re not going to get it.”
            “Now see,” the longshoreman said. “How could you possibly know a thing like that?”
A strange barking laugh escaped her lips, and it seemed to stoke his anger even more. He leaned forward in his chair and ground the tip of his dagger into the table’s wooden rail.  He said, “You think I haven’t noticed the two of you signaling each other all night long? Your carnival shams might fool these other mugs, but it hasn’t worked on me, has it? I’m too skilled a player for you—for any of you—even in a rigged game. Now, play on.”
Her knees felt watery and she thought of telling him the truth: the only way this game was fixed was to keep Moira from cleaning him out in minutes. She didn’t need to cheat. She could explain the numbers of this hand to him, why following after an inside straight was a sucker’s bet, but the odds would mean nothing to him. Plus, she was not a card-counter. Her own game was more guts and instinct than any kind of science. She could read the lay of a gambling table like a boat captain saw the rolls and draws of a current. With the slightest move, a quiver in the corner of an eye, a crossed or uncrossed leg, another player could tell her what they were about to do, the same way an outfielder could tell where a batter was going to hit the ball by the position of his feet and the angle of the bat. But why try to explain that to a man as obviously bad at cards as the longshoreman? Why think he might understand when she didn’t fully understand it herself?
“Fine,” she said, giving him the full benefit of her eyes. “I bet all.”
The longshoreman measured her stacks with a wide skeleton’s grin. She had a little more than half his own holdings left. A smart player would have at least taken some time to think it over, but the longshoreman called the bet immediately. She turned slightly in her seat, aiming the gun at him under the table, curling her finger lightly on the trigger.
Don’t make me, she said to him in her head, trying to breathe and hold the thing steady.
Just as the dealer sent their last cards around face down, the flap on the tent’s door rustled and over the longshoreman’s shoulder she saw Pepper come into the gaming pavilion. He was still in his purple cape and wrestling tights, his fingers massaging the groove in his throat where the noose had caught him. After pausing to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the glare of the lights, he gave her his funny, crooked smile. It felt like someone had set a flock of doves loose in her chest.
She didn’t even bother checking her last card. She knew her ace high would carry the day, so she flipped them over to show the table and waited for the longshoreman to realize he’d lost. His eyes danced back and forth between his cards and hers. She watched it register in his face as he tried all the possibilities in his head. When he saw there was no way he could win, a low growl came from deep in his throat and he lashed out with one arm, scattering chips like a cloud of flies. His chair toppled backward as he stood, dagger clutched in one fist. Before he could move Pepper was standing by his side, laying a hand casually on his shoulder.
“What’s all this?” he said, like they were all in on some kind of joke together.
The longshoreman jerked away, wheeling and slashing with his dagger, but then he was down on one knee and Pepper was bending his knife hand back toward his elbow at a sickening angle. The longshoreman cried out and the knife dropped to the ground. With a quick twist, Pepper forced him down onto his belly and put a knee between his shoulder blades. The longshoreman cursed and thrashed, but Pepper’s expression was as flat as glass as he scooped up the knife and set it on the table. A couple of roustabouts showed up then, too late as usual, and hauled the man to his feet.
“Cash this fellow out,” Pepper said, stuffing chips into the longshoreman’s pockets. “Make sure he knows not to come back.”
As they dragged him away, the heels of his boots skittering in the grass, the longshoreman yelled something at them. Moira couldn’t make it out, but in his voice she recognized a lifetime of anguish and misfortune, a man foundering with no end in sight. Her throat felt dry and she realized she still had the gun pointed at his upturned chair. Slowly, she lowered the barrel into her lap and turned to the dealer.
“Aren’t you just about the most useless man?” she said.
Pepper touched her lightly on the arm. “Easy,” he said, and bent to pick up the longshoreman’s chair. “It’s taken care of now.”
They left through the tent’s rear exit, walking into the carnival’s backyard area, where a couple of Wild West trickshots stood in fringed jackets, balancing the butts of their rifles in the grass like walking sticks. When he saw how badly her hands were trembling, Pepper took her lighter and lit her cigarette. She took a greedy first puff, the smoke scorching her lungs and easing her nerves.
His smile dried up when he saw the pistol in her fist. He took it from her and tucked it under his cape. “Jesus Moira, that’s really stupid,” he said quietly. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I might have to shoot that longshoreman,” she said. “He came at me with a knife, in case you didn’t notice, so I could really do without the scolding.”
 They moved through the alley between the backyard fence and the trailers, the names of the carnival’s various acts painted on them in big bright letters. Hedgweg the Great Colossus! Wayne Munro & his Congress of Performing Hounds! Beneath the words were full color portraits of the performers: the Human Projectile streaking across a blue sky; the aerialist Starr DeBelle, her dark hair flying as she turned a flip; and Jupiter, the carnival’s sickly old elephant, rearing up on hind legs. When they got clear of the trailers Pepper slipped his arm around her waist.
“Can you imagine the hell Boyd would raise if assholes started getting shot at the gaming tables?” he said. “It’d be worse than that time he got audited.”
In spite of herself, she smiled at him. They wound their way past the animal trucks, where a roustabout rolled two big, claw-marked balance balls out of a prop box while a couple of other men struggled to fit a bear with roller skates and a tiny top hat. Drugged up on something powerful, the bear’s eyes tracked them lazily. A few feet away, the animal trainer sat oiling his whip. By the time they got to the outfield wall, a twelve-foot green barrier covered in peeling billboards for cigarettes and safety razors, she was starting to calm down. Her hands were steady as she pitched the butt of her smoke onto the ground.
“How was the drop?” she finally asked him, ready for a new subject.
He tried to hide the tightness in his face. “Fine,” he said.
She stepped back and gave him the once over. “How’s your weight?”
He rolled his eyes, shrugging like a kid forced to model his new Sunday school clothes. “My weight’s good, Moira,” he said. It was a lie. He swung his arms at his sides, as of trying to get the feeling back in them.
“If you were overweight,” she said, “you’d tell your loving wife the truth about it, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s just a couple of pounds,” he said.
She shook her head. “But you went ahead and did the act anyway. I suppose this is the part where I ask you what you were thinking?”
“It’s just a couple of pounds,” he said again. “It’s not a big deal.”
His eyes danced up over her shoulder, where a group of clowns had come out of a dressing tent and stood passing a hand-rolled cigarette around in a tight circle. The confrontation with the longshoreman had drained her energy, and now she felt suddenly exhausted. She didn’t want to play the nagging wife just then.
“It’s fine,” she said. “You’ll skip dinner and lose it overnight while we make the jump up the coast.”
“I’m hungry, Moira,” he said, “and I’m tired. I’m going to put this gun back where it belongs. Then I’m going to the pie car and I’m going to buy some reefer from those clowns. Come and get me when it’s time.”
She heard the whine in his voice and could barely blame him. They’d been on the road all summer, trouping down the Atlantic coast from the carnival’s winter quarters in New York and then cutting a jagged path through the south all the way to the Pacific before marking a course north. From here they would head all the way to the Canadian border before making for home, through either the American Rockies or even Canada if Boyd could get the work permits. It had been a tough trip for Pepper already, starving himself to keep his weight under one hundred fifty-five pounds in order to do the hangman’s drop, while taking on all comers in nickel challenge matches during the carnival’s athletic show. They still had a long way to go.
“Of course,” she said, trying to soothe him. “Where will you be?”
He nodded toward the wall. “Across the street,” he said. “Where it’s quiet.”
“Where it’s morbid,” she said. She was wearing heels, so she had to lean down to peck him on the cheek. “Thank you for saving me from the bad man.”
His response was to raise a victorious fist above his head as he turned and went.
It surprised her sometimes, how attracted to him she still was after all these years. She liked the sharp blade of his wrestler’s body and the look he always carried around in his hard, walnut eyes, indifferent and challenging at the same time. Like he was daring the world to give him a reason. Other men feared him, and she’d admitted to herself a long time ago that she liked that, too. Still, at times his bullheadedness was a burden. She tried not to be so hard on him, knowing that the way he worked he deserved to treat himself now and again, but she also knew he was the kind of man who didn’t think about the landing until after he’d jumped. The kind of man who’d rather run through a wall than try to find a way over. When the reaper finally came for him, which she hoped with all her might was years from now, she knew Pepper Van Dean would ask him if he wanted to wrestle for it.
A racehorse, her father told her once, would run itself to death if the jockey let it. This was on one of their first Sunday trips to Jefferson Park in New Orleans. The riverboat was docked on Sundays and Mondays, so the crew could go ashore. For her father that meant the racetrack, a card room, or a dark saloon with a chalkboard giving odds on the ballgames. She had just started helping out in the boat’s gambling hall when he began inviting her along, figuring if she was old enough to hold down a job she was old enough to learn how to be good at it. That first day wearing her best dress in the magnificent, pillared grandstand at Jeff Park, she was thrilled by the teeming crowd and how atop every gleaming, whitewashed turret and gazebo flags rippled and popped in the breeze. Eighteen, she’d counted by the time they took their seats.
Before the first race a horse with emerald green diamonds on its hood had panicked in the blocks and thrown its rider. It scared her, and she asked her father if the men were hurting the horses by forcing them to race each other.  
“No, honey,” he said to her. That smile, that voice. “It’s the thing they love most in the world. It’s what they were born to do.”
That day they blew their whole bankroll on doomed bets, but it didn’t matter.  Her father saved out a dime and bought them both ice creams on their way back to the boat. For years after that the two of them were inseparable during their time off, always seeking out the track or a card game. They earned a reputation as a team, a father-daughter tandem that could empty your pockets as fast as any stick-up artist. She learned to navigate the world the way only a gambler’s daughter could. She loved her father. He was the smartest, most put-together man she ever knew. Then, on an overnight trip during the summer Moira turned sixteen, he left their family’s cramped stateroom for a late shift in the riverboat’s card room and fell into the water, or was thrown.US

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