The Arrangement

by M. Ravenel

  The bleacher crowd’s cheering intensified. Even some of the suits rose to their feet.

  Darin took another blow to the jaw. His head whipped to the side. He paused, his gaze flitting to the audience again before his focus returned to Shawn. Darin made a few quick shuffles then countered with a lightning-fast left-uppercut that sent Shawn reeling backward, a shower of sweat flinging off his face. Shawn teetered then collapsed to the ground.

  The referee steadily counted to ten. Shawn made a feeble attempt to sit up, only to flop back down on the mat again. As the tenth count was announced, the bell rang, and the arena went into an uproar.

  The referee waved his hands, signaling that the match was over, and he grabbed Darin’s arm and yanked it up in the air in victory.

  “Winner by knockout and new featherweight champion is Darin Rivers!” an announcer’s voice blared from the overhead speakers.

  Well, that was… interesting.

  The tension in the air grew fiercer, as the entire place erupted into chaos. My exasperated bench-mate swore as he ran his hands through his mop of hair. Some of the bleacher crowd flipped the bird toward center ring, while others tossed wads of paper and garbage. In a fit of rage as several ringside chairs were shoved back, many of the suited men stood, blocking my view of the ring. I spotted the two men I’d ridden the bus with earlier, as they followed a group of people storming out of the arena. Near the exit, a commotion suddenly broke out as several men got shoved aside, then another man pointed toward a blur of a shadow that zipped through the door.

  My bench-mate headed toward the exit, and I followed. As the crowd of furious spectators thinned, I looked back toward center ring. The referee watched Shawn’s cornermen drag him off. Meanwhile, Darin’s water boy and cut man looked around, confused, like they’d lost something. Apparently, they had, because Darin was gone.

  Chapter 4

  The vestibule in Sunnyside Arena was a crowded madhouse of disgruntled people ranting over the Rivers-Wesson upset as though they’d lost their entire life savings. Instead of sticking around to eavesdrop on the complaints, I trailed two suited men. The Black guy, who walked with a slight limp, wore a brown plaid jacket and a matching brown fedora. The other, an olive-skinned Italian, was hatless and wore a powder-blue jacket. Both rushed down a narrow side hallway beside the arena’s inner entrance toward a dark stairwell. I didn’t recognize the men, but by the way they hightailed it like two racehorses, I figured they would lead me right to the runaway boxer, Darin Rivers. In the midst of the post-fight chaos, Darin had managed to disappear in plain sight among the crowd.

  When the two men were footsteps away from the stairwell, I slipped into an alcove in front of a closed janitor’s closet. I peeked around the corner at Mr. Powder-Blue and Mr. Brown, who warily glanced about as they conversed in hushed tones. Moments later, they rushed down the stairs. I waited a few beats in case they had any friends coming, but I only heard the echo of the vestibule chaos. Leaving my hiding spot, I hustled to the shallow staircase and peered into the dimly lit sub-level. A sign painted on the concrete wall on the stairwell read Locker Rooms/Changing Area, with an arrow pointing down. A discarded flyer advertising tonight’s fight lay by the stairs.

  An idea suddenly sprung into my mind, and I swiped up the paper then pulled my notebook from my coat pocket. After another quick check over my shoulder for anyone else heading this way, I trod silently down the stairs and emerged into another narrow block-wall corridor. The stale air carried a mildewy odor. The muffled chatter and tromping of the vestibule crowd above gently shook the chains of the hanging fluorescent lights.

  Thunderous pounding echoed from the left. A man’s voice barked, “Get your ass outta there!”

  The two men I’d followed stood at the far end of the hallway. I slinked closer, the soles of my boots padding along the concrete floor more quietly than a cat’s paws. Their backs turned, the men stood in front of a door to one of the locker rooms. They were seemingly unaware of my presence, and I preferred it that way. More time for me to figure out what business they had with Darin.

  Light reflected off a fat silver watch that Mr. Powder-Blue wore on his left wrist as he pounded on the closed door. “Open this fucking door! Now!”

  They waited a moment, but there was no answer. Mr. Brown nervously adjusted the sleeves of his coat and turned to his friend. “He ain’t comin’ out, Curt.”

  Mr. Powder-Blue shoved him aside. “He better come out. I want my damn money.” Growling, he kicked and pounded on the door again. “You hear me, you two-timing son of a bitch? You won’t be breathing when I get done with you! And your girlfriend’s good as dead!”

  Mr. Brown backed away from the door. “He ain’t listening, man.”

  “Oh, he will.” Curt turned to his partner. “Call Vick. Tell ’im to get ready to smoke the broad.”

  I widened my eyes. They’re gonna…

  Mr. Brown spun on his heel, hustled in my direction, then halted. Regaining my composure, I continued walking toward him, passing under a buzzing fluorescent light, and flashed a giddy smile. He looked like someone who would talk or at least give me a clue or two. I just had to ask the right questions and push the right buttons.

  The fear on Mr. Brown’s face disappeared, replaced by a rigid, calculating expression. He approached me with deliberate steps. “Who are you?”

  My plastered smile stretched. “Hi! I just wanted to get Mr. Rivers’s autograph after that dynamite performance tonight,” I said in a bubbly tone, holding up my notebook and flyer. “I tried to catch him, but he was gone.”

  He scowled. “He ain’t down here.”

  I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean ‘he ain’t down here’? I’m pretty sure I saw him come this way.”

  “You saw wrong.” He flicked his wrist, making a shooing gesture at me. “Now scram, baby.”

  Baby… I held my tongue to prevent a few choice words from flinging out. “Look, he’s gotta be down here. I checked the other locker room down the hallway. C’mon, let me just see him for a minute. I just want his autograph—and maybe his towel—or better yet, his glove. Oh, to hold that same sweaty glove he used to knock out Shawn Wesson!”

  “No!”

  I flinched. “Well, y’don’t have to get all bent outta shape about it.”

  “Who the hell are you talking to, Mel?” Curt called, abandoning the door and joining his friend. He looked me up and down, then a crease formed between his thick, dark eyebrows. “Who’s this broad?”

  “I’m Darin Rivers’s number-one fan, and I want his autograph. He is so strong and dreamy, and watching the way he just knocked out the champ makes me want to swoon!” I rambled. “I really, really, really need his autograph!”

  “I told her he ain’t here,” Mel muttered to his friend, who rolled his eyes.

  My gaze bounced between the two men then widened. “Wait a minute. A-Are you guys his managers or something? You hiding him from me? I’m a long-time fan, and I’ve waited ages for this moment to finally get his autograph and meet him face-to-face.”

  Curt cleared his throat. “Ah, yeah. That’s right. I’m his manager.”

  I widened my eyes larger than saucers. “Really? Swell! So that means you can introduce me to him! Mr. Rivers is here, right?”

  “Yeah, but he had a rough night. He’s not talking to any fans right now. Catch him another time.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “What d’ya mean ‘he’s had a rough night’? He just beat Shawn Wesson, the featherweight champ!”

  His jaw clenched. “He did, but sometimes victories come with a price. You follow? Now get outta here.”

  “But—!”

  “Beat it, before I call security.”

  Victories come with a price, eh? I lifted my head, giving them both a dubious look. I’d never heard of a manager being furious at his client for winning—if this guy was even his manager. They were up to something, all right.

  “Fine.” I did an about-face and headed for the stai
rs. I turned my head slightly, keeping the two in my peripheral vision. They didn’t take their eyes off me. I turned and began ascending the stairwell. When I was halfway up, I stomped repeatedly then transitioned to slow, quieter steps. Afterward, I hugged the wall, bracing myself on the banister, and crept up the stairs, keeping my footsteps silent.

  “What if that broad comes back down here looking for him?” I heard Mel mutter.

  “She won’t,” Curt assured. “Now, hurry up and make that call. I’m gonna find a way to get that door open.”

  I took another silent step up.

  Mel grunted. The sound of footsteps approached the stairwell. I continued upward quietly, and with only four more steps to go before I reached the top, I glanced behind me. Mel’s shadow loomed near the base of stairwell. The footfalls stopped, and his shadow spun around.

  “Hey, Curt…” he said, his voice slightly above a whisper.

  “Go!” Curt snapped.

  “What if Darin ain’t even in there?”

  “Look, there’s only one way in and out of that room, and it’s through that door. He’s in there. Now, quit stalling and get your ass upstairs!”

  Mel’s shadow jumped, then he hastened toward the stairwell. With only two more steps to go, I white-knuckled the banister and braced myself to climb both steps at once. The banister let out an echoing creak when I put too much weight on it. I raced out of the stairwell entrance and rounded a corner as Mel yelled, “Hey!”

  I hustled down the hallway toward the vestibule, not looking back. The angry crowd had thinned, and the place was trashed with torn ticket stubs, flyers, and other garbage. A group of four suited men stood near the public wall telephone by the entrance. I recognized one of the men—I’d passed the one chatting on the telephone when I first arrived. There was no mistaking the hard look in his eyes or that bright-red tie that would make a bull go into a frenzy.

  I slowed my run to long, quick strides as I headed toward the exit doors, casting a final glance at the crowd of suits. Who knew if they were all in on Mel and Curt’s plan? Two of them looked my way then averted their sights to three young brunettes who clicked past the ticket booth in their black spiked heels.

  “Find him and bring him to me now, damn it!” Mr. Red Tie growled at the telephone, white-knuckling the receiver.

  I left the building and headed around to the back. I wasn’t sure if any of those guys would be following me, but I didn’t want to stick around to find out. I hid beyond the amber ring of light cast by a nearby streetlamp and huffed, out of breath. I was alone, but I could still hear the chatter of the people who lingered around the front of the building. I pulled out my notebook and jotted down the names and descriptions of the men I’d encountered, including Mr. Red Tie. If they were all affiliated with Darin, then they might know something about Luanda too. And who’s this girlfriend? Is Darin playing around? Whoever she was, she was in deep trouble with these cats. I had a sinking feeling about all this, and it made my skin crawl. I needed to get to Darin.

  A flickering glow behind my feet caught my attention. Turning, I noticed a wide metal grate, where a frosted rectangular egress window sat below at the base of the building’s brick wall. I knelt and peered at the window from the grating. I couldn’t see anything, but I guessed the privacy probably meant it was a bathroom or one of the changing areas. The metal grating shined like new; the installation looked very recent. I recalled sometime last year, when Sam was grumbling something about special new building codes that had taken effect around the city. If these things were part of the new regulations, I could understand Sam’s frustration. They sure looked like more trouble than they were worth. I tried pulling open the grate, but it was locked and wouldn’t budge.

  I stood and looked around the base of the building. Another similar metal grate was set into the concrete about fifty feet away. It, too, shined like a new addition. Peering through the grate, I spotted another frosted egress window. This one was open and offered a view of a long metal bench and a wall of steel lockers in the room beyond. I wonder…

  Looking left and right, I listened for sounds then tugged on the grate. To my surprise, it flipped open with ease. Light from the window cast a dim light into the recessed area that looked just wide enough for one person to kneel. After another quick check over my shoulder, I slid into the recess and looked through the window. The small locker room was empty, save for two red boxing gloves tossed haphazardly onto the grimy tile floor. One end of the long wooden bench was pushed up against the door.

  I was a little too late. But Curt and Mel didn’t need to know that. I pulled back from the window and slid it shut. Two sets of dirty, sweaty handprints smeared the glass. Darin had escaped, all right, and he was on the run from these guys. But why?

  I crawled out of the recess and closed the grate. My next stop would be Cheryl’s place, but I had to rethink things. There was a chance I might find Darin there, too, and I still wasn’t entirely sure about his motives. What was his connection to these guys, and how did it all connect to Cheryl or Lu? If he wasn’t straight, things could turn south fast, and after remembering what Ali had done to Foreman at last year’s Rumble in the Jungle event, there was no way I was going to get into a brawl with any chiseled boxing champion. I had to prepare for the worst, and it was times like these when reinforcements were necessary. I guess I’ll be visiting some friends tonight, after all.

  Chapter 5

  My luck had run out—at least, when it came to cab drivers. According to the dispatch office, Sid was driving a passenger to Manhattan, and I didn’t have time to wait around for him. So I hailed the first taxi I could get. The driver who pulled up, a woman who looked about my age, took one glance at me, scowled, then sped ahead to pick up a man several feet away from me. I sneered.

  I knew that cabbie’s look. My skin was obviously too dark for her backseat. Whatever. That ignorant turkey was living in the wrong city to think that she would never run into people who didn’t look like her. I wasn’t surprised. If anything, I was more annoyed, because it meant I would have to wait for another taxi. Meanwhile, Darin Rivers was out there somewhere, and it was almost midnight.

  Fifteen minutes later, another taxi pulled up along the curb in front of me. I was alone this time, but a cynical part of me expected the cabbie to zoom off as well. The young, pudgy driver looked at me through his tortoise-shell glasses then lifted his hand with an expectant gesture.

  Huh. So he really is waiting on me. I flung open the back door and climbed in. “Thanks.”

  “¿Dónde tienes que ir?” the cabbie asked, eyeing me in the rearview mirror, from which a pair of fuzzy dice and a beaded Dominican Republic flag symbol necklace hung.

  “Kronos Lounge, and step on it,” I said.

  His brow furrowed. “¿Qué?”

  I blinked several times then realized this guy probably didn’t know a lick of English. Sighing, I tapped my finger against my temple as I concentrated, putting my rusty high school Spanish to work. “Kronos Lounge en Queens Village. Um… cerca… de la… uh… esquina de… Hempstead Avenue y Springfield Boulevard.”

  The cabbie looked deep in thought for a moment and scratched one of his thick sideburns that ran out from beneath his dark-blue flatcap. “Kronos… Hempstead…” He suddenly perked up and snapped his fingers. “Ah, lo tengo.”

  I nodded. “Sí. Uh… y hazlo… um… rápido por favor.”

  “¡Entendido!” He gave me a thumbs-up and floored the gas pedal.

  I leaned my head back and let out a deep sigh. I hadn’t planned to be working my brain so hard tonight. I unwrapped a Tootsie Roll from my coat pocket and indulged in its chewy, chocolatey goodness. It was just what I needed to relax, gather myself, and mentally prepare for the possible trouble ahead. During the trip, I managed to learn the cabbie’s name was Matteo Fuentes and he’d been living in New York for about six months. Although his English skills were beyond lacking, he seemed nice enough and patiently tolerated my slow, awkward Spanis
h. He didn’t know the boroughs as well as Sid did, but he drove just as fast. And that was fine with me.

  At 11:50 p.m., the cab stopped beside a car parked under the amber glow of a lone streetlamp in front of a long, grungy graffiti-covered strip building on Hempstead Avenue. Several other cars were parked along the curb on both sides of the wide street. A large burly man in a striped long-sleeved polo shirt stood outside one of the nondescript units, which sat between a shuttered beauty salon and a vacant unit with a For Rent sign hanging in its barred window. Faint neon-blue light glowed from between the grates of the barred metal door behind the man, who stood stock-still with his thick arms crossed. His head moved steadily left and right as he surveyed the area and scanned the occasional passerby. His gaze eventually landed in my direction.

  “Um… espera… aquí… por favor,” I said to Matteo. “Ah… luego… uh… vamos a Soundview.” No way was I going to risk trying to wait on another cab just to save a couple quarters.

  “Sí.” He put the car in park.

  I got out and stepped onto the curb, my feet crushing the cigarette butts and a soggy newspaper that littered the curb. The pleasant aroma of eggrolls and steamed vegetables coming from the Chinese takeout joint across the street quickly overtook the stench of the gutter funk.

  I approached the man standing in front of the barred door. Above him, a small painted sign read Kronos Lounge. The sleeves of his polo shirt fit him snugly, revealing enough muscle definition to make any unruly drunk or hoodlum think twice about acting a fool. Thank goodness he’s working tonight.

  The man’s brow furrowed, then he did a double take. “Tootsie? That you?”

  I quirked a smile. “Mitts. Just the guy I need. Been a while, eh?”

  “Too damn long. Oh, and Roy’s been a basket case since he hasn’t heard from you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. So what else is new? Look, I need you to do me a solid.”

  One of his eyebrows arched. “I must be hearing things. You never ask for nothin’.”