I came across the Kid at Joe Altman's training camp in October 1929 when Altman was preparing for the Henry Bostock fight. Business was bad for me. I had not found a decent fighter in years. There were plenty of them around but they steered clear of me - Max Deacon.

     Altman's manager, Roscoe Yates, had set up camp in the Bitter Mountains three weeks before the Bostock showdown. I knew Altman had no chance. He was big, ponderous and had trouble throwing a right hand after a left jab. He would swing the right hand in a wide arc, and when he missed, which was often, he was open to a one-two to the head. He weighed around two hundred and fifty pounds. That's a lot of beef on the hoof - and he had difficulty with his footwork. Somebody said Joe reached fifteen before he realised he had two feet. His guard was too high and he stopped too much leather to the breadbasket, but Joe had a cast-iron chin, which evened the odds.

     Joe's manager was the biggest double-crossing bastard in boxing. Never put anything in writing; no contracts - just a shake of the hand, yeah, Roscoe had the slipperiest hand in a conman's world. When I turned up at the camp in my 1920's Stutz Bearcat auto, Roscoe did not smile.

     "What the damn are you doing here, Max?"

     "I've come see your boy get ready for Bostock."

     Altman was in the outdoor ring above us, sparring with a speedy middleweight. The middleweight was a youngster with fast hands and feet, but he made the mistake of trying to bomb Altman from close in. Altman caught him with an uppercut and it was goodbye middleweight.

     Yates grinned at me. "What do you reckon about that, Max?"

     "Yeah, it was okay, but your man outweighed the other guy by near one hundred pounds."

     Roscoe loved smoking cigars so he lit one and blew smoke into the clean air. "You have to compromise at this sport, Max. Either you fight those guys who are better than you are, or you take on the mugs." Two helpers carried the middleweight from the ring. Roscoe carried on, "Altman is big and he is slow, we all know that, but Joe can punch and that's what the fight fans want to see - a big puncher. In the last year I've put Joe in with a string of mugs and after sixteen wins out of sixteen, we got ourselves a title shot."

     Altman began shuffling round the ring, grunting, sweating and showing he still needed condition.

     Roscoe looked toward the log cabin housing the sparring partners. "Hey, Larry," he called one of the helpers, "we want another guy in the ring." Roscoe looked me over. "You fancy a couple of rounds with Joe?"

     "No, I retired years ago."

     "You retired too early. You should have come to me - I could have fixed you fights - easy fights too. You should never have gone in with Boots Hansen. He was going up and you passed him on the way down and collected a busted jaw."

     "I got my jaw broken because I was finished, Roscoe."

     He blew more cigar smoke toward the sky. "I hear you've made a bundle on the Stock Market. Make some more by betting on Joe to beat Bostock. He will win - I guarantee it."

     "Where would I place a bet?"

     "I can do it for you."

     Roscoe was being a bastard again.

     "I'll wait until the day before the fight."

     "The odds will be too short by then, Max. Get in now while the price is good. They are offering 10-1 on Joe but by fight time that will be down to evens."

     Altman leaned on the top rope and looked down at me. "Hiya, Max, have you come to look around or to go a few rounds with me?"

     "You're too big for me, Joe. I'll just look around, I guess."

     Altman adjusted his head guard as another sparring partner climbed in between the ropes. "Okay," said trainer Davy Holman to the new guy. "Move around, if you get in close, then hold. Break when I tell you to break, and remember, you are here to help Joe get fit. Now - let's go."

     The newcomer was about twenty, six feet tall and weighed maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. He boxed southpaw. Altman came out of his corner confident he could outbox this boy, but you could see right off that the kid had speed.
     He also had dynamite in his left glove, for one punch with that hand put Altman down. Roscoe almost choked on his cigar. There was worse to follow. Altman got up; eyes screwed in anger. He swung his right fist. The kid slipped under it and his left hand caught Altman in the ribs. Two more punches and Altman was down again.

     "Hey!" screamed Roscoe. "What the fuck goes on here?" He glared at the youngster. "Who the hell are you?"

     "I'm Rex Thompson."

     "Where you from, boy?"

     "Alabama."

     "From Alabama, huh?"

     "Yeah," I said, "he's the 'Alabama Kid'."

     Roscoe and I looked at each other. "The Alabama Kid," said Roscoe, rolling the name round to check for financial gain. Altman was ready to go again. He knew this was no sparring session - this was for real.

     "Okay, you guys," Roscoe called. "You both box for one round with full guns. Joe - if you take this kid out then you can have the rest of the day off."

     The Kid said, "What about me?"

     Roscoe spread his hands. "From here, son, you are fighting to stay alive."

     "I'll bet five hundred dollars on the Kid," I told Roscoe. "Larry will hold the dough."

     "You are on." Roscoe counted dollar bills from a wallet. I matched the amount.

     "I never held so much dough in my life," said Larry.

     "Right, you guys," said Roscoe. "This is a single round only - and it ends when one of you is beaten."

     "Wait a minute," I said. "A round lasts three minutes."

     Roscoe grinned. "This is my training camp and I have just rewritten the rules."

     That did not bother me. I had eighty thousand dollars in stocks and shares and I was in good financial shape. Davy Holman set the fighters on their way.
     The Kid hit Altman with every punch in the book and Joe wound up with a busted nose and a badly cut eye. He went down from a punch to the belly and I could see he was finished.

     "Get up, you bastard!" Roscoe snarled.

     Altman shook his head. "This kid is too good for me."

     Roscoe looked to the sky. "Get up and beat him. If I lose five hundred dollars then that comes out of your Bostock purse."

     Altman got up slow, bleeding from the nose and the left eye.

     "Are you ready to carry on, Joe?" asked Holman.

     "Yeah, what the hell."

     It lasted another twenty seconds. The Kid reminded me of Jack Dempsey, the Manassa Mauler; the way he bobbed under Altman's left lead and delivered a one-two to the body. Another left hand bomb put Altman down and Joe looked at Roscoe, and said, "To hell with your five hundred. If you want it then you come in the ring and you beat him - because I can't."

     Larry approached me with the money. Roscoe snatched it from him and shoved the whole wager into his coat pocket. He blew cigar smoke in my face. "I'll put the $1,000 dollars on the Bostock fight." I asked who the money would be on - Joe or Bostock. "I'll wait until the day of the fight, Max."

     "That's my dough, Roscoe, and I want it."

     Roscoe put a hand into his long coat pocket. "I wouldn't push things if I were you, Max. Now get the hell out. You are not wanted on this camp."

     I had heard that Roscoe was partial to carrying a Derringer, so I stayed quiet.
     Somebody helped the Kid take off his head guard and his gloves and he came to stand next to me. "I beat your man, Mister Yates, and I want payment."

     "Okay, Kid, okay - we can do business. If Joe can't be ready then I'll put you in with Bostock, but it will be a non-title scrap."

     "I don't want Bostock, I want my money."

     "I pay at the end of the week, boy. This is a Thursday - I pay out on Sunday."

     I didn't notice Altman had left the ring until he said, "My eye's cut bad, Roscoe. I need stitches."

     "It will heal natural." Roscoe blew more smoke. "I don't pay doctor's fees, so go lay down and rest your head."

     Altman did not move. "I'm not happy with this set-up, Roscoe. I'll have some of that dough you've put in your pocket." It had been a long time since anybody had stood up to Yates. He smirked. "I got your dough in a special account, Joe. I look after your finances because I am your manager."

     "My eye needs stitching, Roscoe, or there will be no Bostock fight."

     The sparring partners and the helpers were gathering. A wind was getting up, rustling the huge trees. You could feel the electricity of the dispute. I was close to Altman and with that cut I knew he would not make the Bostock fight. When a cut is deep, you can feel it. I suspected it was an old injury. They never do heal well. One stiff punch, with a twist of the glove as it lands, and the cut is opened again.

     "Fine," said Roscoe. "I'll pull you out of the fight. The Kid will replace you." He smiled at the Kid. "With a punch like you got you can take Bostock early and we can make a bundle. I'll settle the details with you later."

     "No," said the Kid. "I'll have my dough now and then I quit camp."

     Roscoe chortled. "You'll quit camp, huh? Where will you go? These mountains are a long way from New York. So how do you get there?"

     "He comes with me, Roscoe," I said.

     Roscoe dropped his cigar and squashed it in the grass. "The Kid stays with me. Since when were you a fight manager, Max? You couldn't even fasten shoelaces."

     "I go with Mister Deacon," the Kid said. "He is my manager now."

     Roscoe stared at the Kid and then at me. He pulled the bill wad from his pocket. "Okay, Kid, tell me how much you want to stay here. I can do a good job for you."

     "I'll have the $1,000 dollars you owe Mister Deacon," the Kid said.

     I saw the Derringer coming out of Roscoe's pocket but before he could use it, Altman hit him on the chin. Roscoe went down and lay still. Altman picked up the bills and handed them to me. "It's your dough, Max. I'll take care of Roscoe when he comes round." He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. "You know somethin'? That is the best punch I've ever landed."

     I peeled off five hundred dollars and shoved them into Joe's hand.


     The Kid collected what kit he had and we motored down a dirt trail until we hit a Highway. I had visions for the Kid: I had the dough and he had the talent. "You stick with me, Kid, and I'll take you right to the top."

     Two hours later I learned by radio that on this Black Thursday, October 24th 1929, Wall Street had crashed.

     And with it - my stocks and shares.