Lightning's Run

  Text copyright © 2014 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  Cover and interior photographs © iStockphoto.com/Steve Krumenaker (brick background); © iStockphoto.com/tomograf (paper texture); © iStockphoto.com/ Abomb Industries Design (woodrat); © iStockphoto.com/CSA_Images (fist).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Goodman, Gabriel.

  Lightning’s run / by Gabriel Goodman.

  pages cm — (Bareknuckle)

  Summary: Bullied relentlessly, Hiram Goldfarb, a Jewish immigrant in nineteenth-century New York City, learns bareknuckle fighting from a former slave wanted for a heinous crime in the South.

  ISBN 978–1–4677–1458–7 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–2412–8 (eBook)

  [1. Immigrants—Fiction. 2. Bullying—Fiction. 3. Boxing—Fiction. 4. Jews—United States—Fiction. 5. African Americans—Fiction. 6. New York (N.Y.)—History—1865–1898—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.G61366Li 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013019530

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 12/31/13

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2412-8 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-4012-8 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-4011-1 (mobi)

  CHAPTER ONE

  I tense up, knowing that if Leah doesn’t stop staring at me, I’m sunk.

  She’s standing at the far end of the Sabbath table, holding hands with our brother, Ezra. He’s only six, one year younger than Leah. But Ezra knows not to look directly at me. His eyes never leave the small loaf of freshly baked challah at the table’s center. He’s smart.

  That, or he’s hungry.

  But Leah stares, her eyes pleading. She knows she should tell our parents what she learned. But Leah loves me, and she won’t. Instead, she tries to guilt me into confessing. She thinks if she stares long enough, I’ll blurt out everything when Papa comes in.

  It just might work.

  The room is almost dark as the sun sets behind the gray buildings across the street. Mama makes her grand entrance from the bedroom, carrying the candlesticks she smuggled in from the old country when we immigrated a year ago. They’re made of brass and as wide as my forearm. She plants one on either side of the challah and takes Leah’s hand.

  She doesn’t see Leah staring. Good.

  I close my eyes and enjoy the rare silence. On any given night, we can hear our neighbors on all sides through the tenement’s walls, walls so thin they might as well not exist. Only at sundown on Friday do things get quiet. As everyone prepares for Sabbath.

  Papa tells anyone who’ll listen that we live in a two-room apartment. People think we’re rich, since everyone else we know crowds their entire family into a single room. None of us contradicts Papa by pointing out the “bedroom” he shares with Mama is a large closet.

  Our luxury won’t last long. Last week, we got a letter from the old country. Mama’s two brothers and their families will be coming to America by the end of the year. And just as Uncle Mordechai helped us when we arrived, we’ll be helping them. Which means our already small tenement will get even smaller.

  Papa enters, clutching his prayer shawl tightly against his shoulders. He’s sturdy like a farmer, which he was until 1873, when we moved to New York. Here, he works as a mason with his brother, the man who helped us immigrate. But on Friday nights, he isn’t a farmer or a mason. He is the closest we have to a rabbi.

  Papa hands Ezra and me small, round yarmulkes, which we place on our heads. Then he takes his place next to Mama and produces a small box of matches from his pocket. He looks at each of us and smiles. For a second, I think he sees the look on Leah’s face. He follows her gaze to me and squints. My heart beats against my ribs. It’s all over.

  “Hiram,” Papa says to me, striking a match. “Will you start?”

  I swallow. Does he know? Is he really trying to get me to spill my guts? I don’t have time to worry about it. As he lights the first candle, I pray.

  “Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu melech ha-olam…” I chant softly. The others join me. I keep one eye on Papa. If he even glances my way, I’ll break. But he’s staring deeply into the flame. Mama’s eyes are hidden behind her hands as she prays.

  As we finish, Papa adds, “May we all know peace in this, our new home.” Then he and Mama each tear off a chunk of the challah. They pass the pieces to Leah and Ezra, who pass one to me. Leah finally stops staring as she helps Mama bring dinner to the table. My secret is safe.

  Sabbath dinner is the same every week. I love it. Papa and I talk about our work with Uncle Mordechai. I make bricks; he and Papa lay them. Mama, who pickles vegetables and sells them on the street corner, tells us she completely sold out of her wares this week, a first. When dinner is done, Mama and Leah go into the bedroom so Ezra, Papa, and I can discuss the Torah. But I’m distracted. And it’s all I can do to hide it from Papa.

  At last, Mama and Papa retire for the evening. I lay one of the old mattresses we got from Uncle Mordechai out on the floor as Ezra and Leah change into their nightclothes. Leah’s back to staring at me. She accuses me with just a look.

  I tuck in Ezra and Leah with a thin blanket and kiss each of them on the forehead. Then I tiptoe across the apartment and quietly raise the window. The musky stench of the streets fills the room.

  Leah sits up and folds her arms. “You’re not old enough to go out alone.” She has the sense to whisper.

  I wink at her. “I became a man at thirteen. Now I’m seventeen. I’ve got four years of experience.”

  She’s not happy, but she doesn’t protest anymore. Instead, she rolls over and faces the wall. I blow a kiss to Ezra, then slip out the window onto the fire escape. The Lower East Side is strangely cool for July. Uncle Mordechai promises it won’t last. He says we’ll be baking in our beds before long.

  I run down two flights of metal stairs, then jump the rest of the way to the cobblestone street. I hop onto the back of a horse-drawn carriage as it passes the tenement, ducking out of sight so no one knows they’ve snagged a stowaway. I’ll do this, weaving in and out of the shadows, until I reach the Bowery.

  I realize that I’m still wearing my yarmulke, and I quickly stuff it into my pocket. Losing it means explaining things to my parents. And I can’t do that. Not yet.

  If my parents knew I snuck out every night, they’d be furious. If they knew where I was going—especially tonight, on the Sabbath—they’d disown me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I can smell the Woodrat before I can see it.

  The deeper I go into the Bowery, the thicker the air grows with the smell of whiskey. It burns my lungs to take a breath. I keep my head down and walk in the shadows. This isn’t a part of New York where I want to make eye contact with the wrong person.

  A row of gaslight lanterns ends where the shadow of the Woodrat Club begins. Like even the light is afraid to go into the bar. I’ve been coming here almost every night for two weeks now.

  The first few times I came, I was surprised no one gave me trouble. I stand
out even now as I walk through the bar. Everyone else here is hunched over a glass stein, so I’m clearly the only sober patron. But mostly, no one gives me trouble because no one here wants trouble. Shady deals are made in every corner, and no one wants to attract the police.

  Behind the bar, Lew Mayflower, the owner of the Woodrat, is doing what he’s usually doing: yelling at his bartender, Tracey. I can’t tell what it’s about this time. Probably caught Tracey skimming from the till again. It doesn’t matter. I’m only glad they’re distracted. The first night I came, Lew’s enforcer, Oakley, grabbed me by my ear and tossed me out. He’s been on the lookout for me ever since.

  When the clock strikes ten, a group of eight well-dressed men steps through the main door. Right on cue. They cross the room, looking disgusted by the patrons. I keep my eyes down and carefully slip into their ranks, getting closer to the mob scene in the center of the bar.

  Leading with my shoulder, I push my way through the crowd until I’ve found a clear view of the fight. The spectators cheer and howl so loudly it shakes my bones. Their attention is on the people circling each other in the middle of the ring.

  Two hairy, barrel-chested men square off before the crowd. One, a guy with a handlebar moustache, doesn’t look very good. Blood flows from gashes all over his face. His right eye is swollen shut. The left one isn’t far behind. He staggers with each step and can barely raise a fist to protect his face.

  The other man, taller and with the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen, looks tired but in far better shape. He fakes several jabs at his opponent, who stumbles back with each thrust.

  The moustache man winds back his shaky arm, ready to strike. But the tall man steps forward quickly and smashes his fist into his opponent’s nose. The moustache man makes an odd gurgling sound.

  The tall man doesn’t stop. The second his opponent’s hands drop, he continues with punch after punch—left, right, left, right! The moustache man’s pudgy face squishes with each blow, like dough being kneaded.

  Finally, the tall man throws a second shot directly into his opponent’s nose. Then the moustache man falls, raising a cloud of dust as he hits the floor.

  The crowd’s shouts nearly deafen me. All around me, money changes hands as bets are won and lost. The tall man raises his arms in the air as Oakley counts to ten over the moustache man. The unconscious boxer gets dragged from the ring.

  A voice bellows over the noise, bringing instant silence: “And now it’s time for the final bout, the one you’ve been waiting for!” The growl belongs to a man with long, gray hair and a belly that hangs over his belt like a swollen lip.

  I know him by reputation: Bill Garrison. Everybody calls him Bulldog. During the day, he runs a soda fountain in the Bronx. He also trains half the fighters who compete here in the Bowery.

  “Our challenger is Armand Carew, all the way here from Brooklyn. He’ll face off against the Bowery’s reigning champion, Lightning!”

  I didn’t think it was possible for the crowd to cheer any louder, but the mention of Lightning’s name turns it into a pit of wild animals.

  In the past few weeks, I’ve seen lots of different trainers. But no one is more respected than Bulldog. His fighters win more bouts than anybody else. Everyone agrees that he’s the best.

  And, one way or the other, when I leave here tonight, he’s going to agree to teach me how to fight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The crowd buzzes with excitement. Everywhere I look, bets are placed. I’ve been coming here almost every night for two weeks. The men I recognize are betting on Lightning. I’ve heard the name, but I’ve never seen him fight.

  Armand Carew, an olive-skinned man, steps into the center of the room, his bare chest rippling with muscle. He swings his arms back and forth and bounces in place.

  The crowd starts murmuring as Carew’s opponent steps out. I blink in surprise. He’s a boy, about my age and size. The flickering gaslight shimmers off the thick sweat that covers his dark skin. He’s a Negro. In the handful of nights I’d spent coming here, I’d never seen a Negro fight. I didn’t know they were allowed.

  “They say he’s an escaped convict,” an old man next to me mutters.

  “I heard he’s wanted in Boston for bank robbery,” someone else says.

  If Lightning can hear what people are saying, he shows no sign. The black boy slowly peels off his shirt, revealing hard muscles like a sculpture. Before he steps forward, he slips his shoes off and approaches Carew barefoot. The spectators buzz. I’ve never seen a boxer take off his shoes before.

  Oakley speaks to them both. The fighters step back from one another and raise their fists. When Oakley rings the bell, the fight begins.

  “Now watch carefully.”

  I’ve been concentrating so hard on the fighters that I haven’t noticed the skinny kid my age who moved up next to me. He’s wearing a bowler hat and a crooked bow tie. He makes sure he’s got my attention, then he points at the fighters.

  “Lightning’s undefeated, and there’s a good reason. He knows fighting’s about more than hitting hard. It’s about outthinking the other guy.”

  Carew, fists raised, bobs back and forth on his feet. But Lightning remains firm, standing in one place. His eyes never leave Carew. The olive-skinned man suddenly jabs. His fist connects neatly with Lightning’s jaw, sending the black boxer’s head back. But less than a second later, Lightning is staring at Carew again.

  “Lightning coulda blocked that easy,” the kid says. “Carew’s so slow, my granny coulda seen that coming. Lightning always lets them get in three strikes. Makes his opponent think he’s a pushover. But after three—woo-hoo—you watch what happens.”

  Carew continues to move around, pumping his arms. Lightning barely adjusts his stance, just enough to stay face-to-face with Carew. The older man throws a right cross that sends Lightning’s head to the side. Lightning takes a step back, then recovers.

  “That’s two,” the kid mutters as the crowd of men hoots and hollers.

  Carew thinks he’s got this in the bag now. Confidently, he throws a left jab that connects with Lightning’s eye. But it’s like the younger fighter doesn’t even feel it. And before Carew has even pulled his arm all the way back, Lightning attacks.

  I see how he got his name. He moves so fast I can barely see him. He advances on Carew, each step coming with a blow that tosses the older man’s head back. The crowd roars with approval as Lightning drives Carew back toward a wooden rail outside the ring. Blood runs down Carew’s chest like war paint.

  A loud snap signals the end of the fight. Carew staggers for a second, then hits the floor face-first. Oakley’s in the ring, counting to ten, but it’s clear Carew’s out cold. Everyone who betted against Lightning pays up.

  “That’s all for tonight!” Oakley announces, and the crowd starts to disperse.

  The kid turns to me, wipes his hand on his pants, and sticks it out. “Name’s Silas. I patch up the broken fighters.” He holds up a leather medical satchel. “I seen you around. You lookin’ to bet on the fights?”

  I shake his hand. “I’m looking to fight.”

  Silas sizes me up. “You look like you could be a scrapper. Can be a good way to earn some extra cash.”

  Money’s the furthest thing from my mind. “Actually,” I say, “I want to learn to fight. I hear Bulldog’s the man to ask.”

  Silas grits his teeth. “I dunno. He can be kinda particular about who he trains.” He nods at Carew, who’s finally started to stir. “Guess I should go do my job.” Silas grabs his satchel and scurries over to Carew.

  As the room empties, I fight the current of people to make my way to Bulldog Garrison. The group of well-to-dos that I came in with are frowning and handing him wads of cash. The easiest way to make money here is to bet against an uptown swell who doesn’t know the fighters. Bulldog cackles happily.

  For the first time since I walked in, I lose my nerve. I can’t stop thinking about Leah, staring at me. But I remind myse
lf, This is for her and Ezra.

  Once Bulldog is alone, I tap him on the shoulder. “Mr. Garrison? My name is Hiram Goldfarb. I’ve come to learn how to fight.”

  Out loud, it sounds completely mishugenah. But there’s no other way to say it.

  Bulldog looks me over from head to toe like Silas did. “You’re built like a fighter,” he admits.

  “I spent my life farming,” I say. “I’m strong as an ox.”

  But Bulldog isn’t impressed. “There’s strong, and then there’s knowing how to use that strength. This ain’t throwing bales of hay, kid.”

  “I can pay you,” I say, then regret it. What little I make working for my uncle goes to support the family. So I backtrack and offer, “I could work nights at your soda fountain. Wash dishes, sweep floors …” Between the brick factory and the soda fountain, I have no idea when I’ll have time to train, but I’m desperate.

  The only two people left in the room are Silas and Lightning. Silas is pretending not to watch. But Lightning, getting slowly dressed, can’t keep his eyes off us.

  “Don’t need any new fighters on my roster,” Bulldog says, lighting a fresh cigar.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to fight here. I just … I need to learn—”

  “I don’t got time to train inexperienced immigrant turds like you.” He pushes past me and exits the saloon.

  Silas scoops up his satchel and saunters over to me.

  “A bit of advice?” he says. Then he leans in to whisper in my ear. “Bulldog’s testin’ ya. Wants to see what you’re made of.”

  “He’s a momzer,” I say, glaring at the club’s door.

  “He ain’t so bad,” Silas says with a shrug. “Lets me work part-time as a soda jerk for extra dough. Look, if you give up easy, he’ll know you ain’t worth his time. Keep doin’ what you’re doin’. You’ll wear him down.”

  He tips the bowler hat at me and hurries off.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The searing heat from the brick oven is the only thing keeping me awake. That, and the knowledge that falling asleep here would mean being burned beyond recognition.