On the Rocks

by Mia Gold

  The giant concrete rectangle had no windows. A large loading dock was sealed off with a metal door. A smaller metal door stood to one side, flanked by a pair of guards gripping shotguns.

  “If you wanna back out, now’s the time,” her guide said.

  He’d been quiet for most of the walk, except to silence people shouting out dirty suggestions of what he should do with this strange woman, and to negotiate passage with a few more thugs who tried to stopped their progress.

  Ruby suspected that when she had given him back his money, he was so stupefied that he had forgotten to be angry with her for beating up him and his friends. He kept giving her wary, curious looks out of the corner of his eye.

  “I don’t want to back out,” Ruby told him. “I never back out.”

  Except out of your life.

  Her guide sauntered up to the guards, who strode forward and stopped them ten yards from the door, scowling at Ruby. He clasped the hand of one of them, who seemed to recognize him.

  “Yo, Razor,” Bob Marley said. “I brought you some fresh meat. She wants to fight.”

  Razor let out a deep chuckle that sounded like an avalanche. “She stupid or you?”

  “No, man. I seen her fight. She took out Shivers and Concrete.”

  “Took out you too, from the looks of it.”

  “No way. We fought to a draw. Then she paid me to lead her through the Maze. She wants a play in the ring.”

  “The King decides that.”

  “Let her in to see the King then.”

  “Fifty.”

  Bob Marley turned to her. “Give him fifty dollars.”

  Ruby glanced around to make sure there were no pint-sized pickpockets around, pulled out her wallet, and took out fifty dollars. Both guards looked at the wallet, obviously shocked. The fact that she had made it this far with her money intact certainly proved something about her.

  Bob Marley handed Razor his phone, then nodded to Ruby. “One of the rules is no filming. You don’t want to break the rules. Last tourist who did ended up dog meat.”

  Ruby felt a chill despite the warm tropical night. Could he mean Richard?

  “I’m not a tourist,” Ruby said, handing Razor fifty dollars as well as her phone. “When did that tourist get killed?”

  Bob Marley laughed. “Last summer. Nobody’s broken the rule since.”

  So Richard died for some other reason. Plenty of reasons in this place, I bet.

  Razor took her phone and waved an electronic wand up and down her body.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Making sure you ain’t wired,” Razor said. “You’re clean. Lucky you. You get to live. At least until you get in the ring.”

  Razor turned to Bob Marley and scanned him too.

  “What you doing that for?” he demanded.

  “You bring a white bitch here with no introduction and you think I’m not gonna scan you? OK, you’re clean. Get your ass in there.”

  “You got some nice friends there, Bob,” Ruby said as they went to the door.

  “Bob?”

  Ruby pointed at his shirt, which she noticed had some fresh bloodstains. “Bob Marley. Got to call you something. I know you’re not going to tell me your real name and I’m not calling you by whatever dumbass street name you chose for yourself.”

  Bob Marley shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Who’s the King?”

  “The major player in the Maze.”

  “If he’s such a major player, why haven’t I heard of him?”

  “Because you a stupid white girl who should have stayed on her side of town.”

  Bob Marley hauled open the heavy metal door and they got hit with a concussion of noise. A roaring crowd, thudding rock music, and the familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh brought Ruby back to her days in the ring.

  The inside of the warehouse was dark except for spotlights shining baleful red light on a boxing ring. Several hundred people were gathered in the darkness around it, looking like dark spirits dimly reflecting the bloody light of the ring. They screamed, swore, waved money, slugged back drinks. The look of them curled Ruby’s lip and twisted her stomach. Yeah, from what she had learned about Richard Wainwright, he would have fit right in here.

  The sight inside the ring was just as ugly, but at least more familiar to her. Two men clad only in boxing shorts whaled away at each other, grunting with each crunch of fist on flesh. They were both Bahamian, bodies toned and muscular, sweat and blood shining on their ebony skin. Their faces were a red ruin, for neither wore gloves, and their meaty fists pounded their opponent with ruthless determination. There was no referee.

  Ruby stopped and stared. Of course she had seen bareknuckle boxing fights before, but only on video. The Gypsy fights in England and the bare knuckle circuit in the Ozarks were strictly illegal. She had never been to one in real life. Axel had. “Made me want to puke,” was all he had said about it.

  It made Ruby want to puke too.

  Bob Marley tugged on her arm. She snatched her arm away and glared. He motioned in one direction and led her around the edge of the crowd. Taking a closer look now, she could see the spectators were a strange mix—all ages but mostly older, Bahamian and foreign, and most looking well off. Females were few and mostly trophy girlfriends of older men, although she did see some wealthy women. She passed by one white woman, the red light making her heavy makeup look like plaster, screeching at the top of her lungs, spit flying from her mouth.

  Betting went on at a furious rate, supervised by employees passing through the crowd, easily spotted by their reflector vests and serious faces.

  “They’re betting after the fight’s already started?” Ruby asked, having to bellow in her guide’s ear to be heard.

  “The odds change every thirty seconds.” He pointed to a big digital timer hanging above the ring. “The bookies are experts. Mathematical geniuses. They got a system to figure out the odds, and they work it out in their heads while people are shoving money in their faces. They all work for the King.”

  “I want to meet him.”

  “Who do you think I’m taking you to? Me and him are tight.”

  Against one wall, Ruby saw a DJ booth manned by a guy in a Lakers jersey and flip cap. The way he strutted and bobbed his head to the music reminded her of Javon. Next they passed a bar so well stocked it made Ruby’s mouth water. All the top shelf liquor was there—Bahamian rum and Russian vodka, Scottish whiskey and French wine. There was German and Belgian beer on tap. Ruby had been to lots of bars on the island, so she considered herself an expert, and this had to be the best stocked bar she had ever seen. The murdered man would have liked this too.

  “Want a drink?” Bob Marley asked, stopping at the bar.

  “We have work to do.”

  Her guide ignored her and ordered a Bahamian Gold.

  At least he’s got good taste in liquor.

  The bartender poured and Bob Marley paid a surprisingly low price.

  “Lowest prices on the island,” Bob Marley said, raising his glass. “Drunk people bet stupid. You sure you don’t want a drink?”

  Ruby stared at the gleaming wall of bottles, lit a soft, inviting blue in contrast to the volcanic red of the ring.

  “I need to keep my head clear,” Ruby said, as much to herself as to her guide.

  Bob Marley shrugged. “If your head was clear, you wouldn’t be here.”

  He finished his drink and led her further around the ring. A loud cheer, mingled with equally loud curses and groans, made her look.

  One of the boxers was on the ropes, his head jerking as punches slammed into his face one after another in merciless succession. The man was obviously done, but his opponent kept on hammering him. He raised weak arms in a feeble attempt to protect himself, unable to know from where the next blow would come because both his eyes had swollen shut.

  “Why doesn’t he tap out?” Ruby cried.

  “Must be a no tap out fight. First man to fall and not get up
is the loser.”

  And fall he did, a few punches later. His legs crumpled like they were made of toilet paper, and he fell flat on the ground and did not move. His opponent spat a bloody gob of phlegm at him and raised his damp fists in victory. The bookies grabbed wads of cash out of unwilling hands, paying out winnings to others. They worked at a feverish rate, their faces passive masks, taking and giving small fortunes without blinking an eye.

  “It’s done. Let’s go,” Bob Marley said.

  With a final horrified glance at the bloodied body lying on the mat, Ruby followed.

  He led her to the far end of the warehouse, where under a golden light sat the King.

  Ruby didn’t need to ask if this was the man they had come to see. He sat on a throne on a raised platform, a bejeweled gold crown on his head, a purple-furred robe around his body, and a golden scepter in his hand.

  He looked like something out of a bad rap video. Ruby was surprised not to see woman in G-strings throwing hundred-dollar bills on him.

  Instead, he was ringed by a half circle of men gripping AK-47s. That made the whole scene a little less comical.

  The King was a lean Bahamian of indeterminate age. A thin, deep scar ran down one sunken cheek. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of shades. The knuckles that gripped the scepter were calloused and scarred. Those and his cauliflower ears showed him to be a fighter, or an ex-fighter.

  The scepter caught her attention next. Ruby was no jeweler, but it looked like real gold. Its ornamental head was dented in a few places, and the teak shaft had numerous notches.

  “What do we have here?” came a smooth, low voice from the man on the throne. He did not move his head, although Ruby felt sure he was studying her from behind those glasses.

  “She wants to fight, King,” Bob Marley said.

  “Looks like she already fought tonight, and that bruise on her forearm looks like it was made earlier today.”

  “Don’t know about her first fight, but she just beat three of the toughest dudes in the Maze.”

  The King waved his scepter at Ruby’s guide. “Begone. If she entertains me you will be rewarded.”

  Bob Marley left so fast Ruby almost didn’t see him go.

  “You won your earlier fight too, didn’t you?” the King asked. Ruby found his eyeless scrutiny unsettling.

  “I can handle myself.”

  “You stand like a fighter. Got the eyes of a fighter too. Always moving. Always checking out the scene.”

  “I’m a trained MMA fighter,” Ruby told him.

  “I can see you’re built like one. Got the scars and muscles to prove it. A bit out of shape if that fool and his friends could give you a run for your money. What you want coming down here?”

  “An honest answer to a question.”

  “I thought you came down here to fight.”

  Ruby took a deep breath. This was a really, really bad idea. She didn’t see any other way forward, though. Richard had been here, and she needed to find out what happened. Her freedom and Neville’s and Kristiano’s livelihoods depended on it.

  “I’ll fight,” she said, her heart skipping a beat.

  “I’ll match you up against one of my intermediate fighters. Don’t want to see that pretty face rearranged too badly. Winners get ten percent of the take. Losers get two percent. Everyone wins.”

  I won’t win if I get a head shot. I’ll die.

  “I don’t need the money, I just need an honest answer to a question.”

  The King frowned. “And what’s that?”

  “I’m looking for someone. A tourist. His picture is on my phone. He came here and ended up dead.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Dead tourists are bad for business,” Ruby said, repeating what the hacker had told her.

  “Not this business. Most of my trade are locals or foreign residents.”

  The ringing of a bell and the roar of the crowd told her another fight had started. She had missed the opening announcement, being so focused on this strange man in front of her—at once both ridiculous and sinister.

  Ruby thought for a moment. “You got a good thing going here, but I don’t think you could afford all that gold and all this firepower just off these fights. I’m thinking you got a lot of businesses going on. Drugs. Prostitution. Am I right? That would suffer if the Bahamas gets a bad rap for killing tourists.”

  The King stared at her, stony-faced and inscrutable behind those glasses. Ruby waited, increasingly uncomfortable, for his answer.

  “I hope you can fight as well as you can think and put on a brave face, because you just got yourself a deal.”

  “Great.”

  Ah, just wonderful. Really fantastic, Ruby.

  The King leaned forward a little. “Since you’re the challenger, you have the right to choose. Tap out or no tap out?”

  “Tap out.”

  Ruby didn’t want to turn someone’s face into putty like that brute in the last match had.

  “Boxing or MMA?”

  “MMA.”

  The King smiled. “I thought so. Brass knuckles or bare fists?”

  Ruby felt a cold fear wash over her. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and cleared her throat. She did not want her voice to waver.

  It did anyway.

  “Brass knuckles.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Her opponent was a lean Bahamian of about twenty, who moved with a supple grace as he danced around his corner with a confident swagger, pumping a fist in the air as if he had already won. Sizing him up from her corner, Ruby judged him to be younger, equally fast as her, with slightly better reach, a bit more strength, and far less experience.

  That lesser amount of experience had to be her winning factor, that and the brass knuckles. As a tall, gentlemanly Bahamian in a business suit strode to her corner and handed her a pair, she felt their cold weight in her hands. She had never fought with brass knuckles before. Every decent fighting circuit in the world had banned them.

  They were her secret weapon this time, though, giving extra power to her punches while giving her opponent nothing. What he didn’t know, what none of these screaming bloodhounds in the audience knew, what even the King’s sharp eye couldn’t pick out, was that one punch with a bare fist would kill her. The brass knuckles wouldn’t make any difference at all.

  Her opponent put on his brass knuckles and clacked them together, giving her a mocking look. Two of the three men in his corner huddled close to one another, looked at her, and laughed.

  The third man, older, with a furrowed forehead beneath a receding hairline, studied her carefully.

  Uh-oh.

  He put his hands on the young fighter’s shoulders and pulled him back a bit, whispering in his ear. The fighter nodded, acting like he was listening, but his face remained dismissive.

  Good, Ruby thought. You go right on being dismissive.

  Probably assumes I’m some overconfident tourist who thinks she can fight just because she’s had a few Tai Bo classes. I’ll show him.

  If I don’t die trying.

  The tall man in the business suit stalked out to the middle of the ring and raised his hands.

  “Ladeees and gentlemen! We have a surprise fight for you tonight. In the blue trunks, we have the Freeport Fighter. And in the other corner, wearing … regular street clothes is … what’s your name?”

  “Start the damn fight,” she snapped. Just standing in this ring made Ruby feel dirty. She sure as hell wasn’t going to give these people her name.

  “In the other corner we have some stupid white girl!”

  The crowd laughed. The emcee raised his hands for silence.

  “Now folks, looks can be deceiving. The King says she’s a fighter, and the King’s word is gold.”

  “The King’s word is gold!” the crowd replied. They made it sound like a mantra.

  The emcee smiled. “Now listen up, ladies and gentlemen. She’s been searched. She doesn’t have any tricks in those p
ockets, and she’s refused some spare fighting clothes we offered her. She says she’s ready to fight the way she is. We don’t know anything about her except she walked here”—a gasp from the crowd cut him off—“that’s right, walked here. She beat up three men on the street too. So the King is right, she’s a fighter. But is she a good enough fighter to take on our man from Freeport? You’ve all seen him fight, and you know he’s good. I’m setting this fight at three-to-one odds in favor of the Fighter from Freeport!”

  The crowd erupted in a flurry of betting. From behind her she heard a familiar voice.

  “Thirty dollars on the white girl!”

  She turned and saw Bob Marley at her corner, making a bet with one of the bookies.

  The street thug turned to her. “You got any money?”

  “Why?”

  “To bet!”

  “I’m not here to bet. I told you.”

  Bob Marley shrugged. “Might as well.”

  “I don’t bet on this kind of thing. It’s dirty.”

  “Says the girl who chose a brass knuckle fight.”

  Ruby leaned over the ropes. “Whatever. Tell me what you know about this guy.”

  “He’s good.”

  “Is he faster than you?”

  “Ain’t no one faster than me.”

  “Is he faster than you?” she bellowed. She didn’t have time for his cheap boasts and messing around.

  Bob Marley gave a dismissive shrug. “Yeah. I’m better with a knife, though.”

  Ruby turned to face the man from Freeport. Bob Marley was fast, with a natural dexterity and a fighter’s reflexes. Arrogant too. If he said this man was faster, then he was plenty fast.

  But her opponent still looked at her with that cocky, overconfident smile.

  That had always been her secret weapon in fights with men. They assumed they could kick her ass just because she was a woman. Of course, they really could beat up most women.

  She was not most women.

  The emcee gestured to both of them. “Fighters, come out of your corners and shake hands.”

  The Freeport Fighter swaggered over. Ruby walked up, averting her gaze, pretending to be nervous. Some of the spectators in front picked up on that and howled.