Flanagan's Run Page 19

  Mother Theresa smiled. “Can I judge the long jump? I fancy I’d be rather good at that.”

  An hour later Carl Liebnitz pushed back his Panama hat and stood, hands on hips, on the rim of the natural bowl in which lay the primitive playing fields of the Blessed Mary Orphanage. Below him, the rough, sandy scrub grass of the playing field was covered by children running, jumping and throwing. That morning he had sought out Willard Clay to get the full story of the previous day’s fracas with the IWW workers, but had discovered that Willard, together with Kate and Morgan, had been given the orphanage assignment.

  Liebnitz’s lean face cracked into a grin as he gingerly descended the steep slope down to the field. A baseball rolled to a stop a few feet to his left, pursued by a tiny, red-haired boy. Liebnitz stopped, picked up the ball and lobbed it underarm to the boy.

  The boy grinned and rushed back to Mike Morgan who was surrounded by a dozen excited children. Liebnitz nodded at Morgan as he passed, raising both hands.

  “Don’t let me stop you, Morgan,” he said. “Looks like you’re doing a great job.”

  Morgan feigned a scowl, as Liebnitz moved on and passed a sister vigorously engaged in conducting a javelin competition – which consisted of throwing a wooden broom-handle for distance. Just beyond, another group of children were throwing stones for accuracy at squares of paper imbedded in the slope, this time organized by a white-haired sister.

  In the centre of the arena, Willard was conducting handicap races around a vaguely circular two-hundred-yard track. Liebnitz winced as a tiny boy, legs in steel braces, struggled past the tape to win a race, then fell to his knees. He rushed to the boy, placing his hands under the boy’s armpits, to heave him to his feet. Sweat streamed down the little boy’s face as he stood hands on hips, chest heaving.

  “You all right, sonny?” asked Liebnitz, bending down to brush dust from the boy’s shorts with his hands.

  “Did I win?” the boy asked. “I got it, didn’t I?”

  Liebnitz gripped the boy by both shoulders and looked into his eyes.

  “You sure did, son,” he said. “You won it clean.”

  He got to his feet as Willard Clay, a whistle between his teeth, walked over.

  Willard blew a blast on his whistle and gesticulated at a group of children moving to their marks for the next heat of the handicap race.

  “On your marks,” he shouted.

  He waited till they all stood poised on their marks, strung around the rough, uneven track.

  “Get set!”

  A moment later Willard blew a blast on his whistle and ten children scampered round the track, the older children at the back, giving massive starts to scurrying infants at the front. Willard let his whistle drop from his mouth to dangle at his plump waist and grinned as a dozen children ran past him and lunged at the finishing tape.

  “Great handicaps,” he crowed, turning up both thumbs to Sister Eileen, who held one end of the broken finishing tape.

  “Who’s the handicapper?”

  “You are, Mr Clay,” said Sister Eileen, smiling primly, as she noted the result of the heat.

  “What on earth is this, Willard?” asked Liebnitz, taking off his hat and fanning his face with it. “The kindergarten Olympics?”

  “That’s about it, Mr Liebnitz,” said Willard, walking with Liebnitz towards the far corner of the ground, where Kate Sheridan, Mother Theresa and three other nuns were conducting a variety of jumping competitions.

  “How did you find us here?”

  Liebnitz grinned. “I weaseled that out of Flanagan,” he said. “He’s a strange guy, your boss. Thinks he’s some kind of a cissy if someone sees him doing a good deed.”

  Willard and Liebnitz stopped at the long-jump pit, where Sister Theresa was measuring the jump of a large long-legged girl who stood over the principal, her skirt tucked into her knickers.

  Sister Theresa looked up at the girl standing above her.

  “Fourteen foot six inches exactly,” she said, smiling. The girl ran shrieking back to her friends assembled at the end of the approach-run, informing them of the distance she had achieved.

  A few feet away, at another sand pit, Kate Sheridan was reaching the final stages of an absorbing high-jump competition. The high-jump stands were makeshift, being broom-handles stuck into the ground with nails inserted all the way up, on which a strip of wood rested.

  Two competitors remained, and the other children surrounding the sand pit became silent as the first, a leggy Mexican fourteen-year-old, approached the crossbar, which stood at four foot eight inches. It was a fine, high “scissors” jump, but the Mexican grazed the bar with his rear leg. It quivered for a moment, then fell to the ground, to groans from the audience.

  Then the last jump of his rival, a tiny, freckled Irish boy of about twelve. The Irish lad sprinted at the bar from the front and hurled himself into the air, bunching himself into a ball. Like the Mexican, he touched the bar and as he landed in the soft sand he turned round towards the trembling bar to see if he had dislodged it. It stayed on. The boy bounded from the pit, to be engulfed by the other children. Kate smiled and looked at Liebnitz.

  “You know the most popular kid here?” she asked. “That little fat guy over there. He got himself over three foot six inches. You should have heard the other kids when the little guy made it.”

  Liebnitz looked round the field, hands on hips, as the sports drew to a close.

  “You seem to have given these kids here a real nice time,” he said. “Most people who’d just run fifty miles through the desert would be putting their feet up today, not holding kids’ sports.”

  “I wasn’t sure when Flanagan asked me,” said Kate. “But he was right. It’s been great here. I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  They walked together towards a table in the centre of the arena around which the children and staff were now gathering.

  “It’s so obvious, plain as the nose on your face,” said Liebnitz. “But we always tend to forget it. When you recognize effort, and achievement, then everyone’s a winner. And when you’ve got no losers, then everyone’s with you.”

  The hundred children squatted expectantly in a semi-circle in front of the table in the middle of the field in the setting sun. Behind the table stood Mother Theresa and her staff, to be joined by Morgan, Kate and Liebnitz, and a few moments later by a sweating Willard and the school caretaker, both carrying large cardboard boxes.

  “Back to your groups,” shouted Morgan and in a moment the children had obediently divided into their original three divisions.

  Willard dipped into the large cardboard box below him, pulled out two chocolate bars and held them above him, to the whoops of the children.

  “Prize-giving,” he shouted. “Compliments of Mr Flanagan.”

  12

  The Picnic Games

  “Goddamit!” shouted Flanagan, ramming down the telephone. Willard Clay did not respond immediately, but sat opposite his employer in the Trans-America caravan, patiently waiting for him to explain himself.

  Flanagan began chewing on his unlit cigar. “Those horsecocks up in Cedar City won’t come up with their ten grand,” he said finally. “They want the runners for free.”

  He shook his head and looked to his right at a map of the United States, on which the Trans-America route had been charted, each fee-paying town marked with a Stars and Stripes flag. He pulled out the Cedar City flag and hurled it to the floor.

  “How come?” asked Willard, carefully picking up the flag and placing it on the desk.

  Flanagan shrugged and lit his cigar. “They must have got it on the grapevine that the mayor back in Vegas wouldn’t pay up because of our boys wearing the IWW vests. Who knows? Who cares?”

  He stood up and continued to scan the map, using his finger to trace the route north-east between Las Vegas and Cedar City.

  “Another town, another ten grand,” he mused. “That’s what we need. There’s not much but desert and mountains between her
e and Cedar City.”

  “What about McPhee?” asked Willard, poking the map with a stubby finger.

  “McPhee? That ghost town? It died about the same time as Dodge City. No one’s lived there since Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane.”

  Flanagan stubbed out his smouldering cigar on the oak table-top and hurled it at the waste-bin, missing by a foot.

  “Not so, boss,” corrected Willard, gingerly picking up the soft, wet stub with his fingertips and dropping it into the bin. “Last year they struck another big seam of silver up at McPhee. It’s no Klondike, but the town’s booming again. It’s all here in the Vegas News. They’ve got over five thousand people up there, half of them in tents. Try them; sure no harm in trying.”

  Flanagan pulled on his nose and looked again at the map. “McPhee? Hell, where is it? I can’t even find it on the map.”

  Willard looked at the map for a moment. “It’s about here” – he jabbed with his finger – “twenty-five miles off Route 15, just north of Cedar City right on the edge of the Escalante Desert.”

  “That means about forty miles extra running for the boys,” sighed Flanagan. Nevertheless he returned to his desk and picked up the telephone.

  “Get me the mayor of McPhee, Utah. MC-P-H-E-E. Of course it exists – five thousand people there, biggest mining town in the whole goddam state.” The phone was again rammed down on its rest, after which Flanagan lay back in his chair and lit another Havana.

  It was a full ten minutes before the phone rang. Flanagan snatched it up at once.

  “Could I please speak to the mayor? Mayor McPhee? This is Charles C. Flanagan here, director of the Trans-America foot-race. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? No?”

  Flanagan scowled and switched the phone to his right ear.

  “Mayor McPhee, I have this Los Angeles to New York foot-race, the greatest professional running competition in the history of man. Over a thousand runners. We’ll be passing through Cedar City next Thursday . . .”

  Flanagan was silent for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

  “He’s a Scot for sure. Wants to know how much we’re asking.” He returned to the telephone.

  “I suggest fifteen thousand dollars,” he said. “Sir, we have some of the greatest professional athletes in the world; Alexander Cole, Lord Peter Thurleigh . . . We could put your town right back on the map.”

  He covered the mouthpiece again. “He’s only offering three grand,” he growled. “Says McPhee’s already on the map. Says he doesn’t give a docken for Lord Peter Thurleigh.”

  “A docken – what the Sam Hill is a docken?” asked Willard abstractedly.

  “I’m afraid the line’s rather bad, Mr Mayor,” said Flanagan, in his Noel Coward voice, shaking the telephone. “I didn’t quite catch your reply. Just something about a docken. Exactly what is a docken, Mr Mayor?” He covered the telephone again and scowled at Willard.

  “Says it’s some sort of goddam weed,” he hissed. Back in the mouthpiece he continued, “No, Mr Mayor. I’m afraid three thousand dollars is completely out of the question. Sir, I don’t think you quite realize that I have national and Olympic champions in my team – indeed, one of my athletes won your own Powderhall sprint championship.”

  He stopped abruptly and screened the phone with a cupped left hand.

  “That’s got to him,” he said gleefully. He returned to the telephone. “Yes, Hugh McPhail, Powderhall professional champion a few years back.”

  He listened again, intently. “Yes, Mayor, ten thousand dollars would be acceptable,” he said. “Payable to me immediately on arrival.”

  He listened again for a few moments. “Yes, sir,” he said. “The Trans-America will arrive next Friday evening. My assistant, Mr Willard Clay, will be with you tomorrow afternoon to arrange all the practical details.”

  Flanagan listened for several moments more, during which his gleeful expression gradually changed to one of bewilderment. He slowly replaced the telephone, his brow furrowed.

  “We’ve got the money?” asked Willard anxiously.

  “Of course,” said Flanagan. “No problem there. And he says that the people of the town will take care of most of the runners in their homes. That’ll save us nearly five thousand bucks. But he’s got one condition. He wants us all to compete in something called a Highland Games. Now what in tarnation’s a Highland Games?”

  Half an hour later Flanagan was to find out, as Hugh McPhail and Doc Cole joined him at his request in the Trans-America caravan.

  “McPhail, you’re Scotch – ” he began.

  “Scots, Mr Flanagan,” corrected Hugh quietly. “Scotch is something you drink.”

  “Then I’ll start again,” said Flanagan. “Scots. We’ve all been invited to something called a Highland Games, at a town called McPhee about two hundred miles north-east of here. These Games, what sort of meet are they?”

  “It’s a sports gathering,” said Hugh. “Folks come in from all around to run, jump, throw and wrestle. There’d be dancing and piping competitions too.”

  “A sort of glorified track and field meet?” asked Flanagan.

  “I suppose that’s what you’d call it here in America,” said Hugh. “But it’s a wee bit more than that. It’s a big social occasion, a chance for people to get together for a crack and a dram.”

  “A crack and a dram?” said Willard, eyebrows raised.

  Hugh grinned. “To talk and have a drink together.”

  “So it’ll be like a day’s holiday for our boys,” said Flanagan, smiling. “What do you think, Doc?”

  Doc leant forward in his chair. “My paw took me to my first Highland Games back in I890 in New York. They called them the Caledonian Games then back East. They were real big money meets – most of the throws and jumps were won by the Scots and Irish, with us Yankees left to pick up what we could in the dashes and distance races. They were big business in those days – twenty or thirty thousand used to pay a buck a time to watch.”

  “Did you ever run in them?” asked Willard.

  “And lose my amateur status? Hell, no.” Doc leaned back in his armchair. “But when I turned pro in 1908 I ran in some and picked up a few bucks. But they were going downhill fast by then – the big Scots immigration was over and the sons of the first immigrants were running amateur at college by that time. No, I guess you can say that the Scotch Games” – he winked at Hugh – “that’s another name we had for them back East – they were on the blink by the War. By 1920 it was all over.”

  “So what are we getting into there up at McPhee?” asked Flanagan, pointing at the map. “The Ghost Town Games?”

  “I guess you can call the McPhee Games a reminder of times past,” said Doc. “Hell, folk out in country districts never gave a hoot about amateur or professional – they just wanted to have themselves a good time. Those Scots miners up at McPhee don’t give a goddam about the Olympics – they’ve probably never heard of Baron de Coubertin.”

  Flanagan laughed, as Doc continued.

  “In the old days, out in the Boondocks, they used to call the Highland Games ‘picnic’ games. So I guess that’s what we’ll find when we get to McPhee.”

  Two days later, on Willard Clay’s return from McPhee, Flanagan assembled his Trans-Americans in the refreshment tent and informed them of his intention to take them to the town.

  Dasriaux was the first to get to his feet.

  “Mr Flanagan,” he said. “We do not have to compete in these – these ’ighland Games?”

  “No,” answered Flanagan. “You don’t have to, but it’s compulsory.”

  There was derisive laughter and Flanagan smiled.

  “Seriously, gentlemen, I want you to think of the McPhee Games as a rest day. I want everyone to go along to McPhee next Saturday and have themselves a real good time.”

  “But these are athletic competitions,” persisted Dasriaux.

  “Handicap competitions,” corrected Flanagan.

  “And who decides
these handicaps?” shouted Eskola, from the back of the tent.

  Flanagan looked uneasily at Willard, who shrugged. “A good point,” he said. “That’s something I’ve got to negotiate with their mayor. But have no fear, I’ll make sure that all you guys get a fair shake.”

  “Are there money prizes?” asked Dasriaux.

  Flanagan chuckled, then picked up a sheet of paper from the table beside him.

  “Yes,” he said. “And some real fancy pickings, too. Just listen to this. Three hundred bucks first prize for the handicap sprint, two hundred for the three miles, and all the other races a hundred bucks each.”

  There was an immediate buzz of discussion among the Trans-Americans. This was good money in hard times.

  Flanagan held up his hand for silence. “And don’t forget there’s big money right down to fourth place,” he said. “But there’s more. Shot, hammer, weight for height, caber, all three hundred dollars apiece. There’s even a hundred bucks for a goddam sack-race!”

  There was laughter and a mood of anticipation as Flanagan’s sales pitch gathered momentum. “High jump; long jump; hop, step and jump; pole vault; hitch-and-kick;” he raised his eyebrows and looked at Willard. “Anyone here know what’s a hitch-and-kick?” he shouted. No one answered. “Well, what- ever it is, they’re giving two hundred bucks first prize for it and for all the other jumps.”

  Flanagan handed Willard the programme of events. He then turned to his Trans-Americans and signalled for quiet.

  “Boys,” he shouted. “It’s pay day. Pay day! Hell, what are you going to be up against at McPhee? Guys who spend twelve hours a day grubbing about in the hills like goddam gophers. McPhail here tells me some of ’em even wear skirts! If you guys can’t come away next Saturday with a couple of thousand bucks then I’m Daniel Boone.”

  There were whistles and applause.

  The tall Texan, Kane, stood up.

  “One thing, Mr Flanagan,” he drawled. “You got anything on that there schedule for our Miss Sheridan here?”

  Willard Clay pored through the list of events and shook his head.