Split Decision (Fight Card Book 3)

by Jack Tunney

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, then.” He patted me twice on the shoulder. He aimed a thumb at me over his shoulder as he talked to Sal on his way down off the ropes. “Keep your boy in check, Sal. The fight stays in the ring.”

  “Got it,” Sal said. He turned back to me. “Rules get thrown out the window when they’re screaming for blood.”

  “More like when they’re screaming for beer.”

  The bell rang. I had no idea what to expect from Kelly this round. I got my answer quick. He came at me like an angry hornet. I took it his payday was ruined, so his only satisfaction of the night would be to beat me inside out.

  For the first time, I saw what he was made of. He threw quick punches in combos of three and four. It was like fighting a hummingbird. A hummingbird with a decent right.

  We slugged it out for a few seconds, an honest-to-goodness boxing match. And a good one too. My brain slipped back into fight mode and I tuned out the crowd, the noise, the jerk with the microphone, who had retreated to a chair in the front row, out of arm’s reach.

  Kelly ran through a flurry of punches twice more and then wrapped me up in a hug usually reserved for returning war heroes. He spat in my ear as he talked this time.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You have any idea what Whit is gonna do to us? It’s all your fault, and I’m gonna damn well tell him so.”

  The ref stepped between us and pushed us apart, reciting the usual warning with no emotion behind it.

  Freed from the clinch I had a clear view of Cardone in the stands. He sat up, watching the round eagerly, waving away the girl who tried to interest him in her new ring. Behind him I spotted movement. Not unusual in the stands, but it struck me the way several bodies moved at once.

  Whit and his boys. They marched a military line, coming up on Cardone from the back. I’d been too young to enter the war, but I knew an ambush when I saw one.

  I stepped up to the ropes and shouted, “Hey!”

  The crowd in the front row pelted me with old popcorn, telling me to get back to fighting.

  “Say hi to your mother for me after the fight,” some guy yelled.

  The ref behind me yelled at me to come back in. Cardone stared at me and I read his lips saying, “What the hell?”

  I couldn’t think of how it mattered whether Whit got to Cardone or not, only that I didn’t want anyone to get hurt over my stupid choices. Kelly sidled up beside me and planted a right hook in my ear. I shook off the blow and came back at him with a left cross that caught his chin and sent him spinning.

  I left him there to hit the mat on his own. Tossing glances out to Whit’s team advancing on Cardone, I made for my corner. Sal climbed the ropes to meet me.

  “What is it, Jimmy?”

  I grabbed the towel off his shoulder and turned, flinging it into the ring. The ref had his back to me as he stood over Kelly counting to ten. The crowd focused on the prone body lying on the canvas. My eyes focused on Cardone.

  The towel hit the mat. No one noticed. Too late anyhow.

  Two of Whit’s men straddled either side of Cardone as Vic clamped a mitt over the girl’s mouth. Whit reached from behind and dragged a knife across Cardone’s throat. Cardone’s two men sat one row in front of him, eyes on the action in the ring, and maybe a little blurry from all the beer. Whit’s men made a good shield from the crowd, who weren’t watching anyway, but I could see it all. No one else noticed the murder among them. If only they could see the blood they’d all be on their feet shouting for more.

  Cardone’s head flung back, his mouth open, but I could tell no sound came out. No one near him turned. Whit’s hand spread across Cardone’s forehead, pulling it back. A fine spray of blood jetted out and the popcorn box in his lap turned red. The girl’s eyes went wide and Vic's knuckles went white keeping her in place.

  The referee reached ten, the bell rang. The ref turned and saw the towel, he looked up at me, confused.

  I turned to Sal. “We gotta go.”

  I checked quickly to see that Lola was still in her seat. She stood in the aisle, knowing this was no ordinary fight, her suitcase already in her hand. Good girl. Damn good girl. If she had let me talk her into waiting at her place I’d never make it there. This way we could both run together and have a chance. How much of a chance, I wouldn’t bet on.

  I hopped between the ropes, pulling at the laces of my gloves with my teeth. The crowd cheered the best bout of the night. Knockout. Just what everyone wants to see.

  The first gunshot was nearly buried under the sound. I turned, pulling one glove off, and saw Cardone’s two men had finally caught on. The first shot came from Cardone’s men. All at once four other men within spitting distance of each other all drew their guns and started blasting.

  The place nearly came apart at the seams. People ran three directions at once and all into each other. I tried to make it up the aisle toward Lola, tugging at my last glove stubbornly still attached to my fist.

  The aisles filled in like flood water rising, only with bodies churning in whitewater swells. For a second, I felt grateful the glove remained on my left hand. I punched a few guys out of my way, sending them sprawling onto the folding chairs in the aisles. More gunshots. Someone screamed like he’d been hit. The guys I punched had no idea I’d probably saved their lives. Flat on the deck was the safest place to be. I stood straight and tall as I tried to reach Lola.

  I bet that announcer was having a field day with this.

  I spotted Lola ahead, and she saw me. She fought to stay upright in the rushing tide of bodies fighting toward the exit. I cold-cocked a fat guy in a hat and shoved another guy with his jacket on inside out.

  A man ran past me in the aisle with track-star speed until another shot rang out and he fell, a bright red hole in his back. Whit’s men and Cardone’s men had spread out and were shooting blindly over their shoulders like in a Jesse James movie.

  I saw one of Whit’s men take a bullet to the head. He fell and a man in the crowd caught him, realized what he had, then dropped him quick.

  I reached Lola, grabbed her hand in my ungloved hand, still with tape on it, and pulled. “Come on!”

  She followed me, bouncing her suitcase off shins and hips of men running for the door as we made our way against the tide down toward the ring. The shooting slowed now that some of the men were dead and some made it to safe hiding spots.

  I saw Sal standing dumbfounded by our corner, huddled with my stool against his chest as if that would stop a bullet. We reached him and I stooped down to pick up my bag, chewing open the knot in my glove as I did.

  “Sal, get moving,” I said.

  “What the hell is all this?” he asked.

  “Nothing but trouble.” I checked his waistband, the envelope was still there. “Go. Get out of here.”

  Lola clutched onto my back. I could feel her terror in the sharp fingers digging into my arm right through her gloves and in the tremble in her body.

  “Sal,” I said. “We have to go. I’ll call you.” I lifted my gym bag and took Lola’s hand. A bullet pushed past my face, blowing on me with hot breath as it passed. It landed in Sal’s neck. In one side and out the other. His hands opened and the stool fell to the floor.

  I watched his confused face go slack. Lola screamed and buried her head in my shoulder blades. I turned to see Whit halfway up the aisle with a gun pointed my way. Guess he blamed me for all this and I couldn’t disagree.

  When I turned around Sal had already slumped to his knees, the envelope tumbling out onto the fight hall floor, spilling money on top of a growing pool of blood.

  I pulled hard on Lola’s hand and made a weaving course for the exit.

  ROUND 13

  We burst out the side exit and into an alleyway. I cursed Lola’s good shoes, the ones I knew she would never leave behind. The heels were too tall and made it hard for her to run. Still, I pulled her along as fast as she could take as we made for the street.

  The si
dewalks reminded me of the hysterical citizens in War of the Worlds, mine and Lola’s last date night. Men ran from Veteran’s Hall like their lives depended on it. For me it really did.

  We made it out of the alley and to the sidewalk. I spotted two cabs waiting by the curb, the drivers out of their cars and looking at the doors of Veteran’s Hall hemorrhaging people. They had that look of confusion that set in right before you decided: if these people were running, then I’d better be running too.

  I pushed through the stream of runners, dragging Lola behind me, and made it to a bright yellow cab.

  “Hey, buddy, let’s go.”

  He turned to me, stubby cigarette burnt down to ash in his fingers. “What the hell’s going on in there? A fire?”

  “Just get in and drive.” I opened the door and reached back for Lola. Seeing an open door, a guy in a dark blue suit and wild hair that used to be combed over a bald spot ducked in between me and Lola, slipping into the seat.

  “Hey!” I shouted and reached in to the cab. The driver was so mesmerized by the street he never noticed us.

  I hauled the guy out by his lapels. The man’s hair stood even higher as I brought him back to the sidewalk. “This ain’t your cab, mister.”

  He didn’t know which way was up. Probably the first time in his life he heard gunshots. He saw my solid expression, my unwillingness to debate the situation. I didn’t think he even noticed my bare chest or my boxing trunks.

  He swung at me with arms loose as wet noodles. I pushed him back from me and rammed a fist into his nose. His hair stood straight up as he fell to the sidewalk, arms flailing out to grab at something that wasn’t there.

  Behind me Lola got clipped by a guy running past. She teetered on those high heels and fell down. I was there in a flash to lift her back up. I knew the street was too dangerous for us.

  “It’s all right. I won’t let you go,” I said. I doubted it was any comfort to her.

  I turned back to the cab and pushed Lola in, tossed her suitcase in after her. I pounded my fist on the roof to get the attention of the driver who still gawked by the mayhem on the street.

  “Let’s go!”

  The cabbie snapped out of his daze and slid into the driver’s seat, tossing his nubby smoke as he did.

  “Train station,” I said. “Step on it.”

  That damn jerk who tried to take our cab. That drunken panicked fool. If it wasn’t for him . . .

  Whit and Vic hit the sidewalk. Vic saw us immediately. Must have been looking for the cabs. He shot out an arm with a finger like a dagger on the end of it, aiming right at my heart. Whit followed his point and spotted me, gym bag in my hand, door open.

  I flung the bag in ahead of me and sat down quick, slamming the door.

  A car skidded to the curb. Whit’s driver Johnny-on-the-spot to pick up the boss man. I bet he was wondering more than anyone what the hell had made everyone flood out of Vet’s Hall.

  A second car joined them at the curb, Whit’s buddies – minus one who was still face down on a row of broken chairs inside the hall, busy painting the floors red from the bullet hole in his skull.

  I pounded on the back of the seat. “Get moving!” I yelled.

  Lola’s eyes were terrified, her body rigid, her mouth a grim line. The red of her lips reminded me of the blood on Sal’s neck.

  The cab driver finally jerked away from the curb. Whit yelled something at his boys and then took a pot shot at the cab with his revolver. Our cabbie ducked in his seat.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

  “Just keep going,” I said.

  “Is it a raid?”

  “Yeah. Just drive.” As long as he had an answer it didn’t matter to me what he believed.

  I turned in my seat to see the second car take off after us, right on our heels. Whit still stood on the running board of his car and fired another shot. Not even close.

  “I hate to tell you pal, but you got company,” I said.

  “Hey, hey, wait. This ain’t my problem.”

  “It is now,” I said. “You’d better get moving.”

  “You ain’t got a gun, do you?”

  “No, but they do and that’s enough.”

  The driver knew the city streets so we had that advantage. I clutched Lola’s hand in my taped one and squeezed. She squeezed back – hard.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” I whispered to her, subtly pushing her down in the seat so her head was below the window level.

  “Jimmy . . .” was all she could manage. She was a tough kid. I never expected to find out how tough.

  I dug in my bag and pulled out my wristwatch. 9:40. The train for Chicago left at 10:00 on the dot. Plenty of time to get there, if nothing went wrong.

  The cab driver should have won a medal for valor. He wove in between cars and squeezed through yellow lights to make sure we kept moving. The Friday night traffic wasn’t bad, but it kept us switching lanes and dodging buses.

  The car behind us kept pace, squealing tires a lot more, but sticking to our bumper. I started to recognize streets that I knew ran close to the train station. Still a good half mile off, but closing in. If they followed us right to the door of the station, though, that was no good.

  “Can you lose them?” I asked.

  “What in the hell do you think I’m tryin’ to do?” the cabbie said as he hunched forward in his seat, licking sweat off his upper lip.

  “If you get to the station and they’re still on us, keep driving.”

  I felt the tap of a fender on our back end. The rear of the cab started veering away and the whole car angled to the left. I wrapped my arms around Lola and braced for the crash.

  The cabbie kept us from flipping over. That much was a miracle. The cab swung into the oncoming lane. The cabbie pressed the brakes. The car behind us backed off and let us swing out of control. We went up on the curb, the front wheel bouncing up and both tires popping loud as gunshots.

  The front end of the cab went through the window of a drug store. Thankfully, it was all closed up. The store front shattered and threw bits of glass over the car like a spring rain. Like that confetti on the streets on V-E day.

  The cab driver pitched forward and his head hit the steering wheel. He slumped back into his seat, out cold. Lola and I slammed against the back of the seat, my arms taking the brunt of it for Lola, though when I looked at her she already had the workings of a great headache.

  We both took a second to get our breath and our bearings back, the music of falling shards of glass to accompany us.

  “You okay?” I managed.

  “Yeah. I think so,” she said weakly.

  “Stay here.”

  I hated leaving her, but I wasn’t going to sit like two ducks in a pond and wait to be shot.

  I opened the door and started a whole new cascade of falling glass. I waited for it to pass then slid out on the side of the drug store. I was blocked by the bulk of the steaming car.

  Someone screamed and I heard someone else call out for somebody to call the police. Then I heard, “He’s got a gun!”

  Since my hands were still taped I took the risk of putting my hand down and scooping up and fistful of glass. Nothing sliced my hand so I spun out from behind the car and took two steps forward, seeing the two approaching gunmen as they stalked the wounded car and the people they thought were inside.

  I flung my arm out and tried my best to aim at their eyes. A cloud of tiny shrapnel sailed across the space between us and by the time they turned to look at me, they each got a spray of broken glass to the face. Both man screamed and I didn’t wait to see how badly they were hurt. I stepped forward and knocked the gun out of the hand of the man closest to me, then put a firm right cross over the bridge of his nose.

  He went down and I stepped over him to the other man clutching at his eyes, gun still in hand. I saw the small crowd of onlookers. Some had gotten close, wanting to help, but then backed off when they saw the guns. Now they watched as I raised my fist again
and pounded a right into the other man’s cheek. I grabbed his shirt with my left and ran three more rights to his already bloody face.

  Finally he dropped the gun and slid out of my hands. My knuckles ached and were already starting to swell.

  I crunched over glass to the cab, opened the door and reached for Lola. I pulled her onto the sidewalk, trying to steer her away from seeing the two downed men. I bent back inside and grabbed our bags.

  I turned to the closest onlooker and said, “Call an ambulance. The cab driver needs help.” I left the other two out of it.

  I took Lola’s hand and started running for the train station.

  ROUND 14

  My hands throbbed. It had been quite a while since I’d punched someone without gloves on. The tape did little to protect me and I hadn’t been pulling any punches.

  With Lola’s wrist in one hand and our two bags in the other, I needed to take a rest six blocks away from the scene of the taxi crash.

  We were only another five blocks from the train station and I could see a bank clock across the street that read 9:48.

  Safe now nobody was following us, I sat down on the stoop of a three story walk up. Whit had gotten greedy with those gunshots and missed the chase. That cabbie was such a pro by the time Whit had gotten in his car, there would have been no way for them to catch us.

  I sucked for air and massaged my aching knuckles.

  “Johnny, please tell me what’s going on,” Lola said in a weak voice. “I’ve never seen you like this. I’m . . .I’m scared.”

  I pulled her down to sit next to me. Her body stiffened. I wondered exactly what she was scared of.

  “Those men,” she said. “You hurt them.”

  “Or they would have hurt us.”

  “I’ve just never . . .”

  “Lola, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, just explain.”