“See, see!” Gus said, grabbing Simon by the shoulder. “I told you his hands would be faster.”
Simon could see it. Hans’ fists would flick out and back, so fast it seemed that he couldn’t have hit the big Scot. But the red marks on the body and face of MacDonald told the tale, as did the blood flowing from his nose and from the cut above one eye, matting in his moustache and beard.
Simon had never heard the word juggernaut, but if he had, he would have agreed that it was a good description of Hans in this round; advancing inexorably, with nothing to deter or divert him from his goal, which appeared to be nothing less than the demolishment of one Andrew MacDonald of Clanranald.
The end came suddenly when Hans blocked a haymaker, stepped forward and buried one fist right below the sternum of the hapless Scotsman. MacDonald froze for just a moment, almost paralyzed, and in that moment Hans landed a thunderous blow on the point of the chin hidden behind the red beard.
The big Scot was straightened up by the punch; his eyes rolled up in his head and he crashed backwards onto the floor of the ring.
The crowd erupted in cheers as the referee waved Hans to his corner, and began reciting the count. Simon, elated, counted along with him.
“Eins!
“Zwei!”
Gus started yelling out the count in concert with Simon.
“Drei!
“Vier!”
By now others around them were counting with them.
“Fünf!
“Sechs!
“Sieben!”
The entire crowd was shouting along with the referee now.
“Acht!
“Neun!
“Zehn!”
Hans came out of his corner for the obligatory holding up of the winner’s hand. He turned and waved to each side of the ring, then returned to the near side of the ring, stepped through the ropes and hopped down to the ground.
Gus immediately began helping with removing the gloves. Simon picked up Hans’ shirt and handed it to him as soon as his hands were free, following it with the big man’s coat.
Hans plucked his hat off of Simon’s head. Simon grinned up at him; Hans grinned back and held out a fist. “Luck.”
Simon tapped it with his own fist. “Luck.”
“Luck indeed,” Gus said. “Wish I had a luck like that.”
Hans draped an arm around Simon’s skinny shoulders. “You find your own luck. Simon’s mine.” Simon beamed in pride.
And with that, they took off to find Herr Pierpoint and collect the winnings for the evening.
* * *
“Well, I guess we have an understanding,” Ciclope said to Schmidt. “A good evening to you, Herr Schmidt.”
He started to turn away.
“Wait!” Schmidt hissed.
Ciclope turned back slowly, a serious frown forming on his face.
“What are you going to do next?” Schmidt asked. “I have the right to know.”
“Ah,” Ciclope responded. “Next? Pietro, tell the man what we have in mind.”
The Italian did so, in a rapid mutter. Schmidt’s eyes grew wider and wider, and toward the end he began to smile. After Pietro was done, he clapped his hands together.
“Wonderful! If you manage that, I will increase the money from two parts in three to three parts in four!”
Ciclope smiled in turn. “Get the money ready, Herr Schmidt. It will take a while to get put into action. Pietro has to find some tools, first; but it won’t be long. And I promise you, it will set Magdeburg on its ear when it happens.”
* * *
The watcher nodded to himself. Confirmation.
Chapter 38
A T & L TELEGRAPH
BEGIN: GVL TO MBRG
TO: FRAU MARLA LINDER
ADDR: SYLWESTERHAUS MAGDEBURG
FROM: HM AT TROMMLER RECORDS
DATE: 6 FEB 1636
MESSAGE:
YOU ARE A PROPHET STOP
NUMBER ONE WITH A BULLET STOP
DOING A THIRD PRESSING OF DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING STOP
ORDERS KEEP POURING IN STOP
HEARD THROUGH GRAPEVINE THAT RECORD PLAYER CO HAS SOLD ALL UNITS ON HAND AND IS BACKORDERED OUT WAZOO STOP
YOU HAVE PROBABLY MADE US ALL WEALTHY STOP
OR AT LEAST WELL OFF STOP
CONGRATS STOP
WHAT TO DO FOR ENCORE? STOP
HEATHER
END
Marla looked up from the telegram, a bit bewildered. “But I didn’t do it for money.”
Confused himself, Franz took the telegram from her and read it. “Ah,” he said after being enlightened. He handed the telegram back to Marla. “Did you expect to be ignored?”
“Nooo…” Marla drew the word out as her eyebrows drew down into a frown.
Franz smiled and he spread his hands. “Well then, it was inevitable, I fear, that after delivering such a message you would become either famous or infamous. Of the two, I really think famous is the better choice.”
“But I didn’t want the focus to be on me!” Marla looked like she wanted to stomp her foot. Her frame of mind was not helped when Franz started chuckling. She swung a slap at him, which missed by two feet.