The Tales of Saint Anthony, The First Day

Cliff Chatsworth, Boxing Couch, Gibbon's Gym

Cliff Chatsworth waited on the corner of Franklin and Hennepin for the street-car to take him across the river to Pig's Eye.

It was still dark and there wasn't any activity on the street, with the exception of old-blind Arnie setting-up his newsstand.

There was a fellow helping him who Cliff recognized from Gibbon's Gym, or The Rose as the fighters called it, in the basement of the Hamm's Brewery where he did some coaching.

Johnny Holiday was his name, and Cliff thought he was a promising boxer, even though at this moment he was moving about like a drunk. It was an early start to the day, probably just a late night for the boy, he thought to himself...but still, booze and boxing don't mix, may as well be pouring talent in the gutter.

He couldn't make out their conversation but they were laughing a good bit. It appeared to him that the two of them knew each other well, and Johnny was being of service, which he took as a sign of good character.

Cliff had gotten his paper before Johnny had pulled up in his convertible. He held it folded tight and read a column off the front page, and he allowed his mind to wander...

It had been five days since the last gunfight in the city, and there had been no other murders to speak of. These violence-free days were the longest stretch since January, when Karl Thorrson's war with Colonel Forrester had begun...and which now appeared to be over, with the Giant Thorrson having gotten the upper-hand.

Cliff had worked for the Colonel when he was younger, not directly, but he had met and spoken to him a couple of times...though never about business. At sixteen he had taken a post as a road agent, their objective was to stop commerce along the Mississippi, Minnesota and Red Rivers, the full length of the border Minnesota shared with the Lakota Confederacy.

After that Cliff had spent a dime in the Stillwater Penitentiary for Bank Robbery, a job he had done on the Colonel's behalf. He never got any help from the old man, not even so much as a word of thanks for his service.

Those were the breaks, Cliff told himself while he did his time.

He might have had a great life as a gangster, he certainly enjoyed it while it lasted; he might also have ended up in an early grave like so many of the fellows who had lost their lives in the year of terror St. Anthony had just gone through.

Cliff tried to shake these thoughts from his head.

There was no escaping the past, and he had learned to box in prison...coaching came natural; that's what they told him down at the gym. He was on the straight path now, following the sweet-science, and through it he had found his purpose, so he had no regrets.