LISTON AND CLAY had signed on to fight, but the contest still needed a home and a date. For a while it seemed that the world of boxing was divided between promoters who did not want any part of Liston and his underworld ties and promoters who worried that Clay would fare no better than Patterson did against the powerful champion. They feared involvement in a congressional inquiry, a shameful mismatch, and a financial fiasco.
Liston understood what constituted an attractive contest: “A boxing match is like a cowboy movie. There’s got to be good guys, and there’s got to be bad guys. That’s what the people pay for: to see the bad guy get beat.” He understood his role—“I’m the bad guy.” Yet between Sonny’s nefarious past and questionable present and Cassius’s incessant patter and Black Muslim connections, there was no cowboy to wear the white hat.6
The December issue of Esquire attempted to put the white hat on Liston—actually, photographer Carl Fischer shot him in a red-with-white-trim Santa Claus hat. The cover close-up of Sonny’s face—his expressionless mouth, flattened fighter’s nose, and eyes that projected all the pain of his unhappy life—suggested that there would be no Christmas in 1963, an appropriate metaphor for a nation still morning the death of President John Kennedy.
In Miami, however, there was another Santa. “William B. MacDonald needs only a snowy beard to pass for Santa Claus,” wrote Miami Herald reporter Edwin Pope. Shortly after Esquire appeared on the newsstands, Uncle Willie, as businessman and sportsman MacDonald referred to himself, bought the dubious rights to stage the Liston-Clay fight in the Miami Beach Convention Hall. Perhaps it took a gambler and promoter like MacDonald to agree to pay the enormous sum of $625,000 for the live gate of a match that had sent so many other established boxing promoters fleeing for the doors.7
Why take the chance? He had the answer: “For kicks. I’m in it for kicks.” But beyond the sheer fun of the action, he sought to promote the image of America abroad. During the 1950s and 1960s, the Soviet Union openly ridiculed what it considered the hypocrisy of America’s claims of freedom and equal opportunity. MacDonald thought “it would be great to show the world that two colored boys like Liston and Clay could fight in a Southern city and be treated like kings.”8
Although paternalism streaked through MacDonald’s discussion of race, he praised Liston and Clay, emphasizing their gentlemanly qualities. But his liberalism stopped short of tolerance for the Nation of Islam. A MacDonald associate said, “Don’t invite Uncle Willie and Malcolm X to the same party.”9
THE IDEA OF Malcolm running into Uncle Willie at a cocktail party in Bal Harbour or the Fontainebleau Hotel seemed unlikely. But he would have found a warmer welcome there than in New York, where his troubles with Elijah Muhammad weighed heavily on his mind. Malcolm needed to get away. His phone rang nonstop with press calls dogging him with questions about his future. The man who had always had an answer for reporters was now unsure what to tell them. Tortured by his separation from the Nation, his mind randomly jumped among Elijah, Captain Joseph, President Kennedy, his mosque, the press, and the death threats. It was all too much.
On Wednesday, January 15, the morning after his late-night writing session with Alex Haley, he reached for the phone to call a friend. But before he could dial the number, it rang. Joseph K. Ponder, an FBI agent from the Buffalo field office, was on the line with a few questions: Where were you last night? Do you know anything about a plot by the Black Muslims to assassinate Lyndon Johnson? How long will your suspension from the Nation last? Ponder seemed especially interested in Malcolm’s future with the sect.10
After the call from Ponder, the phone rang again. A reporter from the New York Times also wanted to know if there was any truth about the plot to kill the new president. “The whole idea is ridiculous!” Malcolm declared. For an hour, reporters from all over the country dialed his number, inquiring about the assassination rumors and his suspension. Finally, the phone stopped ringing. After being badgered for an hour, Malcolm turned to a personal matter and called a friend in Miami to tell him that he was bringing Betty and their children to visit. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day!” Cassius Clay said. “Me and Brother Archie will pick you up.”11
After the call ended, an FBI agent listening to their conversation contacted the Miami field office and instructed agents to tail a 1963 Chrysler with Florida license plate 1E-16521. The New York agent stressed that it was important that they follow the car to the airport the next day and “determine” the purpose of the “subject’s activities” in Miami.12