by Crimefactory
#
Drupczek's laughter cracked through the warehouse. "Tonight's card features none other than Roy "The Ripper" Delmonico, fresh from his legal battles at City Hall. Congratulations on your trial, Roy."
I fought the urge to spit.
"You convinced the jury you weren't betting on your own fights, despite having a shady past. Wonderful. What a solid citizen you've become." He slapped his hand against the railing, so hard both Vostov and the brunette jumped. "But what you didn't do, you didn't throw the Dobrowski fight like I told you. That little Pole ended up costing me ten G's."
I heard a sudden drawing of breaths. Okay, so there were more than four of us in the warehouse. Out beyond the ropes I saw them: a crowd of broad Slavic faces and drab coats. I recognized a few. The triggermen didn't carry Thompson's like the stylish gangsters of Chicago, but long, double-barreled shotguns.
"Forget where you came from?" Drupczek said. "Forget all the fakes and fixes that got you to this point? We haven't."
That stung because it was true.
I had thrown fights in exchange for Mob pay-off's. It's easy enough to pull a punch or take a dive in the fifth, especially when some heavy points a gun at you just before the match. I hadn't liked it, though. And I'd vowed to clean up my act as soon as I could. Starting with Dobrowski.
"You've already made a lot of dough off me," I said. "If the Law says I'm in the clear, then I'm in the clear."
Drupczek shook his head. "You're about to have a re-trial. Only the judge is going to be me, the honorable Salwel Drupczek presiding. And a jury of your peers. Your real peers, that is."
Dangerous laughter rippled from the crowd.
"What I'm offering, Roy, is a chance to settle things with our little family. The old way. If you can beat my man, then you'll walk out of here and everything'll be square. Assuming you can still walk. If you get beat . . . well, this warehouse is standing on a pier. Instead of waking up in a dressing room, you'll be waking up at the bottom. How does that sound?"
That sounded just peachy.
"Don't sulk, Roy. You'll get justice tonight--if you can pound it out with your own two fists."
I wasn't convinced. "How do I know this won't be rigged?"
"Because I'm the referee. Though I got to tell you, the odds are five to one for the other guy."
#
The crowd of mobsters parted. A lone figure headed towards the ring. He had a towel thrown over his head, but there was something familiar about his movements. He wore red trunks and shoes. His hands had been taped like mine.
I watched him climb gracefully through the ropes.
"Roy," Drupczek said, "I'd like you to meet another up-and-comer. You might have heard of him: Kid Carnahan. Take a bow, Kid."
My opponent tore the towel off his head. It was the Kid, alright. All five-foot-six, hundred-forty pounds of him.
You'd need to know something about boxing to understand the fear that gripped me. I'd thought Drupczek was going to set me up against a bruiser; someone topping six feet with a lot of ham around his middle and bear-paws for fists. I'd fought plenty of bruisers. They hit hard and they could take a punch, but unless they had skill to back up the muscle it was just a matter of chopping them down, bit by bit.
Carnahan had a baby-face and sandy blond hair. Freckles covered his flattened nose. And that's where the boyish qualities stopped.
I'd watched him knock out Lonnie Gibson with a left hook in the eighth. All through the fight he kept his feet moving like a homicidal ballet dancer, his small, hard hands pounding out a symphony against Gibson's chin. I'd appreciated the pugilistic skill at the time. I wasn't appreciating it so much now.
I raised my fists to Drupczek. "Where are our gloves?"
"You're not getting any. We're going to do this the old-fashioned, bare-knuckled way."
I started to object. "You realize--"
"This is my game, Delmonico. My rules."
His smile told me he'd be making them up as he went along.
#
I stood in my corner and the Kid stood in his. We locked eyes for a second. He mouthed the words "nothing personal" and gave a half-hearted shrug. But his eyes blazed the whole time.
Drupczek produced a brass bell and struck it with a tiny hammer. The chime seemed to reverberate forever.
Carnahan came gliding forward. Rough hands seized the back of my shoulders and shoved me towards him. We almost collided in the ring's center. I got my hands up and started circling left, expecting to spend a few moments feeling him out while he did the same to me. No dice. He bulled forward. I threw a jab and he ducked it easy, came up and fired two shots at my gut. I got my elbows down to block both, but his third punch, a right hook, came sailing out of nowhere and slammed against my jaw.
Lights. Stars. I felt a tooth crack. I threw another left from reflex and he floated out of the way. Like trying to punch a hummingbird.
Around me, the crowd started roaring.
I back-pedaled. The Kid came in with another flurry. Christ, he wasn't wasting any time. I blocked, pivoted, weaved. Showed him I could dance, too. He shifted his stance with a twist of his little waist and suddenly I was fighting a southpaw. Caught me with a hard left that rocked my chin backwards.
The light show again. Time slowed down. I looked up at the box with Drupczek and Vostov and the green-eyed girl. Ten seconds into the fight and he's almost knocked you out. Twice.
I remembered what Drupczek had promised, about waking up under the pier. I could feel it; the murky waters closing around me, my lungs filling with cold filth . . .
Time snapped back. Kid Carnahan stood flat-footed, winding up for an explosive right. His little chin was wide open. I lashed out, but sent the punch downstairs instead of up. My knuckles collided with his stomach. It felt like punching a sack of doorknobs. He reeled back, his knockout blow spoiled. More surprised than hurt.
Surprised I could hit him, perhaps.
Then he came at me again.
#
The bell rang and I limped back to my corner.
Someone had set out a stool, but as soon as I'd turned to sit it was whipped away. I crashed onto my tailbone. Laughter. A mobster with a cheap fedora leaned through the corner ropes to leer at me.
"He's killing you in there, you know."
"Thanks."
I wanted to punch him, but it'd be a waste of energy. And brother, I needed all the juice I had. I looked across the ring at the Kid. He was standing, leaning his lithe body against the ropes. He didn't even look winded.
The bell rang.
#
When I was a kid, my wop father had given me boxing lessons in our little garage. He made me stick a tennis ball under my chin to keep it down. He made me snap my hands back to guard position after I threw a punch. And he kept me always, always on the balls of my feet, dancing, never setting my heels down unless I was finishing with a hook.
I'd shaped up into what's called a technical boxer. Not a slugger, or a brawler. A guy who kept his mind on defense. I had a strong right--that's what got me the nickname "Ripper"--but I didn't throw it around carelessly.
Unfortunately, Kid Carnahan was a technical boxer, too.
And he was faster.
I had four inches of reach and about thirty pounds on him.
He hit harder.
My skull was thick and I had a horseshoe for a jaw and I'd done so many sit-ups you could grate cheese on my stomach.
He had more wind.
I took a shellacking the second and third rounds. My main agenda was staying vertical. I moved and covered when I could, and threw only jabs to the Kid's face. Nothing harder. Carnahan figured out my strategy real quick, but didn't seem to tumble the reason why I was keeping it soft.
He'd find out soon enough. If I could stay awake.
#
Fourth round he started fighting dirty.
I'd leaned back from an uppercut, his knuckles whistling past my face, and he stepped in and pounded my g
roin. If he'd swung a two-by-four it might've hurt less. My legs disappeared. I slammed against the canvas, the first knock-down of the fight, and the Kid took the opportunity to rain punches on my unprotected back.
If there'd been a ref, I'd have gotten a standing eight count and the Kid would've received a warning. But there was no ref. There was Drupczek looking smug in the comfort of his box seat, and he didn't seem to have any problems with the Kid's waterfront tactics.
Two blows struck my kidneys, burning like knife-thrusts. I rolled and did the only thing I could do: grab Carnahan's knees. He fell to the canvas alongside me. I rolled on top of him, clinched his smaller body against mine.
And then I head-butted him.
His nose cracked. Hot blood spurted onto my cheek. We rolled together, wrestling now instead of boxing, and in my fury I tried to butt him again, bite him, gouge those blue eyes . . .
A gunshot boomed.
I looked up to see Spider Vostov holding a large caliber pistol. Drupczek, his face flushed, leaned over the side of the box. "That was your warning shot, Delmonico. Any more clinching and Spider puts the next one in your gut. Then we tie you to the pier."
The crowd grumbled, and Drupczek struck his bell.
#
After that the rounds blurred together. I didn't have a cornerman to keep them straight. The head-butt had slowed Carnahan a little, and every chance I could I jabbed him in his broken nose. He'd grunt, and the noise was enough to keep me going.
I was in far worse shape, of course. Nobody held up a mirror, but I had deep cuts over both eyes. Blood-mingled sweat kept dripping across my vision. I'd run out of wind some time ago and was operating on what--raw nerves? My face felt swollen. I kept expecting a ringside doctor to call the fight, or a cut-man to start fussing over me. Or a cup of water at least, to calm the raging in my throat.
Nope.
The bell rang.
#
It could've been the fifteenth round. It could've been the fiftieth, but I'd never gone this far before and I bet the Kid hadn't either. We were exhausted. We swayed together like two old friends, looking to end the relationship.
Carnahan had enough juice to throw a hard right. I caught it with the meat of my shoulder. He grunted, followed with a left. I dipped my head down so the punch glanced off the top of my skull. He grunted again.
Grunts of pain.
The sound I'd been waiting for.
Boxing gloves, see, aren't meant to protect an opponent's face. They're meant to protect the hands. The Kid had been so focused on knocking me out, landing heavy punches to my jaw and other bony places, he'd ignored his own bruised fingers, his torn knuckles. Until now. My hands, however, were still fresh.
A wave of sureness swept through me. All my hurts, all my doubts went someplace far away. My hands seemed to float up of their own accord. I let them fly--saw the surprise register on Carnahan's face as I marched him straight back with a series of left-rights. He tried to dance to one side. I cut him off. Hit him with a straight right, my signature, then a hook, then slammed the right again into his body. He tried to throw a counter, but when his fist connected his face spasmed in pain.
He couldn't hit back.
I surged over him and gave everything. I wasn't boxing anymore, just hitting. My vision narrowed, became a long tunnel with Carnahan's face at the other end. The only sound was the dull smack of flesh. Mine against his.
Time to end it.
I balled my right and shot an uppercut into Carnahan's chin. The punch lifted him. He fell against the corner and lolled there, tangled in the ropes. His blue eyes gaped empty as summer sky.
Knockout.
Needless to say, I didn't get any applause.
#
The whole warehouse drained of sound. The only noise was my own ragged breathing. Then a murmur swept through the crowd. The mobsters looked solemn beneath the brims of their cheap hats. They were murderers, hustlers, and all-around schmucks, but for a moment I felt their primitive respect. I'd just beaten another man. That was something they could understand.
A group of them approached, disentangled the Kid's slack body from the ropes, and carried him off.
Drupczek watched with obvious distaste. He clenched his jaw and twisted at his rings like his fingers were about to fall off. I had the sudden hunch things weren't really over. Yeah, he might let me walk out of here tonight to save face. But I'd still crossed him. Embarrassed him. And he could set a button-man on my trail easy as blinking.
"Listen to me," I said, and raised my bruised arms to the crowd. "Listen."
The murmuring died away. Drupczek opened his mouth to say something, but I went on.
"I've spent the past couple weeks in the D.A.'s office. I've overheard things. Things about your boss. You might be wondering why he's never been jailed, never even charged with a crime. Well, it's not because he pays off the cops."
"Delmonico!" Drupczek said, shooting to his feet.
"It's because he's an informant. A rat. What he does, he calls the police whenever he wants someone in the organization removed. He'll leak enough to get the guy pinched, so he doesn't have to go to any trouble--"
Vostov raised the heavy pistol. His face had all the expression of a Death's Head, minus the grin. I watched him squint for the shot that would take me either in the heart or between the eyes. Calm as I could, I said: "You might want to hold off there, Spider. Because the next guy on the chopping block is you."
He didn't flinch. His eyes stayed flat and the pistol steady. But he didn't pull the trigger, either.
"Your boss is fingering you for the murder of a woman. I don't know if you did it or not."
"Spider," Drupczek shouted. "Drill him, now!"
"Her name's Vera Gemeni."
The name meant nothing to me. I'd seen it written on a manila folder atop the D.A.'s desk, along with a dozen gruesome photos. For Spider, though, it meant plenty. He turned to Drupczek and the gun turned with him. Drupczek raised his hands like he was surrendering. His face quivered and he talked fast, and Spider slapped the barrel against the side of his head. Just above the ear. Drupczek stopped talking. Spider hauled him up by the armpits and tossed him out of the overseer's box.
For a heavy guy, he sure seemed to take awhile falling.
He struck the canvas with a thud. At the sound, the mobsters clustered around the ring started shouting and cursing. Some of them swung their fists. Maybe it was adrenalin from watching the fight, or maybe the signal for a long-awaited coup had finally come. But nobody approached to help Drupczek. Up in the box, Spider Vostov surveyed the whole scene with his arms folded, while my green-eyed beauty from St. Louis screamed and screamed.
None of it mattered to me. What mattered lay sprawled a couple feet away. Groaning, Drupczek craned his head up from the floor. He wobbled to one knee. I let him take a good look at the chaos devolving around us, and what that meant to his hard-won organization. His eyes flashed bewilderment. I got his attention by smacking my fist against my palm.
"One more fight on the card, Drupczek."
And now he paled with real fear. He wasn't up in his box anymore.
He was down in the ring with me.
hungry samurai by bryon quertermous
The man in the mask attacked The Quarterback in an hourly motel nine minutes after Midnight on a muggy August evening in Detroit. A year ago The Quarterback would have seen it coming, would have been four steps ahead and had the man in the mask incapacitated within seconds without disturbing the hooker curled up on the far side of the bed. A year ago The Quarterback was a different person, a crusading vigilante with a chip on his shoulder who would have protected the hooker from a violent pimp or a drug-crazed john, not bartered her down to her bare minimum price then forced her into things she normally charged extra for.
A year ago he wouldn’t have been a fucking victim.
Reacting to each punch, The Quarterback kept finding himself in a defensive stance and couldn’t get the upper h
and on his attacker. His instincts were good, but reactionary, swatting away punches instead of grabbing and snapping arms. And hopping over bad kicks like a ghetto jump rope jockey instead of containing the kicks and reusing the energy to his advantage.
Even with enough booze and coke in his system to tranquilize a herd of mutant bulls, The Quarterback wasn’t losing the fight. He just couldn’t find a way to win it. The man in the mask moved quickly, darting punches into The Quarterback’s ribs and head while keeping his legs off balance with sharp, cutting blows to the shins and ankles. A year ago The Quarterback would have realized the only reason he wasn’t losing was because the man in the mask was holding back. He also would have realized the man in the mask was someone he knew who had a major weak spot in his left knee.
Instead, he found out by accident when the hooker finally snapped awake and lashed out at the man in the mask. None of The Quarterback’s loose punches or wild kicks had been able to get to the man in the mask, but when the hooker flailed herself back to consciousness she clipped the man’s knee and he dropped like he’d suddenly been deleted from the game of life. That drop, and the scream of surprised agony, finally pierced The Quarterback’s haze and he realized who the man in the mask was seconds before trying to take his head off with the only chair in the room not bolted to the floor.
"You," he said to the man in the mask.
"Fuck," the man in the mask said. "It’s about time you remembered."
The hooker gathered her senses along with her panties while the man peeled off his mask. When she got an eyeful of his dark black skin, tenderized by scars and bruises. She punched The Quarterback.
"I draw the line at threesomes with niggers," she said.
The man holding the mask smacked the hooker and threw her out, locking the door behind her.
"I’m going to kill your coach," the man said. "And I'd like you to help."