The Killings of Stanley Ketchel: Acclaimed Brutal Historical Fiction of a Ragtime Boxing Champion and American Outlaw - Softcover

Blake, James Carlos

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0060554371 ISBN 13: 9780060554378

Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks, 2006

Synopsis

The author of the brutal and brilliant Handsome Harry returns with the story of one of the greatest matches in boxing history. . . . “The Killings of Stanley Ketchel is a stunner. This is brilliant iconography, righteous Americana, and brutally powerful prose. A triumph!”—James Ellroy

Hailed as “one of the greatest chroniclers of the mythical American outlaw life” (Entertainment Weekly), James Carlos Blake brings to life the blazing story of Stanley Ketchel, the ragtime-era middleweight boxing champion and daring rakehell whose brief and meteoric life blazed with violence and tragedy in and out of the ring. Fierce and tender, sexy and funny, vast in setting and rich in historical detail, The Killings of Stanley Ketchel is this monumental talent at his robust and lyrical best.

About this title

About the Author

James Carlos Blake is the author of nine novels. Among his literary honors are the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, Southwest Book Award, Quarterly West Novella Prize, and Chautauqua South Book Award. He lives in Arizona.

From the Back Cover

Hailed as "one of the greatest chroniclers of the mythical American outlaw life" (Entertainment Weekly), James Carlos Blake turns to the blazing story of Stanley Ketchel, the legendary ragtime-era middleweight boxing champion and daring rakehell, whose brief and meteoric life burned with violence and tragedy in and out of the ring. The Killings of Stanley Ketchel is a sweeping and powerful literary adventure by one of our most daring novelists.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Killings of Stanley Ketchel

A NovelBy James Blake

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2006 James Blake
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0060554371

Chapter One

The Golden Smile

Ketchel's manager, Willus Britt, lays it out plain and simple."We put in the contract that if there's no knockout the fight'sa draw. All Stevie and Jack have to do is make it look goodfrom start to finish. The white hope middleweight against theNegro heavyweight. Like David and Goliath, only better. Andonly it's a draw. I'm telling you, the whole country'll go crazy.They'll be screaming for a rematch. And that's when we make areal killing."

Across the table, George Little, who manages Johnson, smilesand nods.

It is late summer of 1909. They are in a secluded booth next toa window in a San Francisco hilltop restaurant. The fog banking infrom the bay is blue in the city's early evening light. Even from this vantage it is difficult to believe that a little more than three yearsago the town had been charred rubble.

"Not that we won't do plenty good on this one," Britt says."Hell, we'll pack Sunny Jim's to the top rows. Plus, the odds'll beso heavy on Jack, we'll rake in even more with side bets on thedraw."

"We'd have to spread them bets around so's not to raise suspicion,"George Little says.

It's the remark of a man who's decided he's in, and Britt smiles."Naturally. We'll use fronts to lay the bets."

George Little nods.

Britt leans farther over the table toward him. "Christ almighty,man, they'll pour in for the rematch like the Johnstown flood.We'll charge even more for tickets and still need a place double thesize of Sunny Jim's to hold them all. I'm telling you, we'll need agoddamn freight train to carry off the gate money."

He sits back and fingers his red bow tie to ensure its proper lay.A spare man whose perpetual half-smile and sleepy aspect can foolpeople into thinking he lacks astuteness.

George Little leans back too, smiling small, eyes narrow.

Beside him Jack Johnson grins. His gold teeth gleam in the lampglow and his shaven head shines like polished ebony. Arthur JohnJohnson is thirty-one years old and the heavyweight boxing championof the world. At 210 pounds and just shy of six feet two, heis by far the largest man at the table. The stickpin of his cravat isalso of gold, the fob chain looping from his vest pocket, the headof his walking stick. He wears a diamond on his pinky. His suit iscustom-tailored. His shoes are of crocodile hide.

Sitting next to Britt, Ketchel smiles too, and thinks how grandit would feel to knock out those gold teeth.

On Johnson's other side is a slender strawberry blonde with coolgreen eyes, her cheeks and nose powdered with freckles fine as cinnamon.She'd been introduced as Sheila. Although Ketchel is appalledthat a white woman would keep company with a Negro,especially a woman as pretty as this one, and especially in public,he affects indifference. Yet he is intensely aware of her, of the pushof her breasts against her shirtwaist. He would bet they were freckledtoo.

Johnson catches Ketchel's appraising glance at her. "She a pulchritudiouseyeful, ain't she, Mr. Stanley? Lady from Australia. Saysomething in Australian for the man, honey." He has a fondnessfor polysyllabic words, especially of his own concoction, and isprone to the malaprop.

"We speak English in Australia, Jack, as you bloody well know."

"Spake," Johnson says. "Aus-try-lya. Blooody well. Man, I lovesthat lingo."

She rolls her eyes and looks out the window at the encroachingfog. Johnson puts his hand under the table and she smiles and giveshim a sidelong glance.

"What say we stick to business, Jack?" George Little says. He isclearly uncomfortable with the woman's presence, has repeatedlyadmonished Johnson to be more discreet about the white ones.

Ketchel smiles to mask his indignation. The dinge pawing herin a public place with three white men looking on and the bitchbarely shows a blush.

"So?" Britt says. "We got a deal?"

George Little turns to Johnson. "What say, Jack?"

Everybody knows what his answer will be. His share of the pursewhen he won the title was a pittance, and he hasn't been able to geta big-money fight in the ten months since. He needs the cash. He's a high-roller. He likes the night life, flashy clothes, the horses, thedice. Bold white women. A fight with Ketchel means a payday toobig to turn down.

"I say fine," Johnson says. "Make me feel kinda lowdown to mixit up with a little fella, even if it ain't for real, but sometimes yougot to take what you can get."

"Gosh, Jack, that's sad," Ketchel says. He'll be damned if he'll letthe coon nettle him with that "little fella" crack. He is the worldmiddleweight champ, and at five feet nine inches and 160 poundsis larger than the average man of his day. In more than fifty officialfights he has knocked out nearly all of his opponents, more than adozen of whom outweighed him by at least twenty pounds. . .

Continues...

Excerpted from The Killings of Stanley Ketchelby James Blake Copyright © 2006 by James Blake. Excerpted by permission.
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Edition details

• Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks
• Publication date: 2006
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0060554371
• ISBN 13: 9780060554378
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 320