The Best American Mystery Stories 2017 Page 3

  “My dad used to say that. A lot,” she scoffed.

  “He was a boxer?”

  “A club fighter. Loved the game more than it loved him. He’s in a hospice now, Mr. Maguire. Dementia. From taking your puncher’s chance one time too many.”

  “I’m sorry it went that way.”

  “It always does. It’s a savage, bloody sport.”

  “If you hate it, why write about it?”

  “I’m my father’s daughter, I suppose. And there’s an endless fascination to the fight game. With all the corruption, the mismatches, the wheeling and dealing, in the end it comes down to two guys in the ring. Facing off, one-on-one, with the crowd screaming for blood. The last gladiators.”

  “But they always have the same chance,” I said. “It’s tough about your dad, but don’t fault a guy for loving the game. And as long as he kept on swinging, he did have a puncher’s chance. The next punch can change your whole life.”

  “Wow, you actually believe that, don’t you?”

  “Belief’s got nothing to do with it, lady. It’s the flat-ass truth. Hell, you just saw it happen.”

  I was back in the gym at first light the next day. Desperate. The flaw Jilly revealed would definitely finish my career, unless I could find a fix for it.

  Preferably before I faced Juba in the ring.

  I spent hours in front of a full-length mirror, shadowboxing, turning this way and that, studying my form, looking for a solution to my problem.

  Not finding one.

  Pops came in early too. He circled me slowly as I worked out, watching for the better part of an hour. Neither of us saying a thing. But finally he shook his head.

  “There’s no way to compensate, Mick. You can’t drop your elbow low enough. Beyond that point, you start to hunch down—”

  “Which leaves me open for an overhand right,” I agreed, “which will drop me even faster than the liver shot. I might as well close my eyes and hope Juba knocks himself out.”

  “I’m pulling you, canceling the fight.”

  “The hell you are! We need the damn money, Pops, even if it’s only the loser’s share. And it’s not a done deal. We know the problem, but Juba doesn’t. If I can get to him before he spots it, I’ve still got a chance.”

  “A puncher’s chance?” Pops snorted. “Guys who count on that get carried out.”

  “It’s the only shot we’ve got, Pops. Now quit bugging me, I need to work on this.”

  He disappeared into his office, taking my last hope with him. My Pops was an Olympic coach, a brilliant ring general. If there was a solution to my problem, he would have seen it. Since he didn’t . . . ?

  I was on my own. With a puncher’s chance.

  Assuming Bobbie Barlow didn’t take that small hope away. If she mentioned my problem in her daily blog—

  But she didn’t. Her column was totally focused on Jilly, the rising star of the Irish Maguires. She only mentioned my name to plug my bout with Juba. Didn’t mention the sparring match at all.

  Which must have been a tough call. It would have been a big scoop to pinpoint the exact moment Irish Mick Maguire’s career ended. And Jilly’s began.

  Or so I thought.

  The first bout of the Friday Night Fights opened with a bang. Jilly had drawn a UFC cage fighter who was making her big debut in the boxing ring. The cage fighter had a fierce rep, years of fighting experience, a cauliflower ear, and fists the size of country hams.

  It didn’t save her.

  Jilly exploded out of her corner like she’d been shot from a cannon, taking her rage and frustration out on her opponent, firing off punches in bunches, accurate as sniper fire. The cage fighter covered up, trying to weather the storm. But the barrage just kept coming, numbing her arms, until she could barely defend herself.

  Hurricane Carter in his heyday would have had his hands full against Jilly that night.

  She had the UFC fighter so clearly outclassed that midway through the second round, after a murderous flurry, Jilly actually dropped her hands and stepped back, glaring daggers at the ref.

  “Are you going to stop this slaughter or what?”

  The cage fighter used the break to take a wild swing at Jilly’s head, a huge mistake. Jilly answered with a salvo of savage body shots, jamming her opponent into a corner, beating her senseless. The referee finally leapt between them, waving Jilly off, earning a chorus of boos from the crowd.

  They were hoping to see a clean knockout, a rare event with female fighters. And they would have gotten one. A few more punches would have sent the cage fighter to dreamland. Or the ER.

  Jilly was so deep in the zone she popped the ref three times before she realized he’d stopped the bout. He was an old-time heavyweight, Bozo Grimes. He’d once gone the distance with Foreman, but he winced at the power of Jilly’s punches. I felt sorry for him.

  But not for long. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

  Bobbie the reporter was right. My tomato-can opponent was anything but. Joliet Prison is one of the toughest gladiator schools in the country. Kid Juba had been training all day, every damn day, fighting for his cherry.

  Following Jilly’s example, he came charging across the ring at the bell like Dempsey jumping Willard, firing off blows in a blur, so fast it took every bit of ring craft I owned to fend him off. A few struck home, getting my attention. But the others came on in a steady drumbeat, jab, jab, hook, cross. Jab, jab . . .

  In a set pattern. Predictable.

  Juba wasn’t a smart fighter, more like a schoolyard bully who’d picked up some skills. He was throwing too many punches too soon, desperate for an early knockout. It took me less than a minute to pick up on his rhythm. After that we were trading leather for leather in the middle of the ring. The crowd cheered the action, but it was all flash and dazzle, no serious harm done. We were fencing, probing for weaknesses. Seeing what worked, what didn’t.

  Juba was short on technique but he had power. I got that message when I slipped a right cross. The punch flashed by like lightning, missing my jaw by an eyelash.

  And it definitely widened my eyes.

  The sheer force of it sent me a message. Big-time. This stud was dangerous.

  Put-your-young-Irish-ass-in-traction-type dangerous.

  Fully focused now, I picked up my rhythm in the second round, taking Juba seriously now, taking him to school. Pugilism 101.

  I went in low, hammering the ex-con’s rib cage with stiff body shots, sharp punches with serious snap to ’em, dealing out some pain. The barrage forced Juba to drop his guard a few inches, then quickly raise his hands as I finished every flurry with a hard right to the head.

  The attacks didn’t do much damage. Juba was blocking most of my shots, probably thought he had me figured. Anticipating that final right, he started lifting his left a little sooner every time. A rookie mistake.

  As the round wound down, I suddenly reversed the pattern, firing off a flurry of body shots, then dropped the last punch four inches lower, digging a hook under Juba’s elbow as he raised his guard. The punch drove home like a battering ram, halfway to his spine!

  Juba gasped, then quickly backed away, grinning, shaking his head like the punch was nothing. Nothing at all.

  But that punch was something.

  I charged in, working the same combination again before he could figure it out, delivering a second body shot to the same spot, flatfooted this time, a sledgehammer blow with serious steam on it.

  Juba couldn’t clown this one off. Wincing in pain, he backpedaled, dancing away as fast as he could. He stayed up on his toes the last fifteen seconds of the round, then walked stiff-legged back to his corner at the bell. His knees wobbled when he collapsed on his stool.

  I nodded in satisfaction. Gotcha! Juba was definitely in the House of Hurt.

  “You hooked him good there, Mick.” Pops grinned as I dropped onto my stool, breathing deep with my nostrils flared, sucking down all the air I could hold, inhaling the stink of the ri
ng, the crowd. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m good, Pops.” Then I tuned him out, focusing on the ex-con across the ring.

  Tall and rangy for a middleweight, Juba had long arms, like Tommy Hearns. Had a honey of a scar on one cheek, gleaming through the Vaseline, giving him a fierce, predatory look.

  But beneath the savage mask, I could feel his pain. Juba was keeping his teeth bared in a fierce grin to camouflage it, but his brow was furrowed and he couldn’t quite straighten up on his stool, even when his trainer tugged on his waistband to relax his abdominals.

  I knew that agony. I’d drilled him with the same punch Jilly had caught me with earlier in the week. I’d stopped one like it once before, early in my career. The pain was so bad I thought the guy had ruptured my spleen. Somehow I answered the bell, stayed on my feet, but I could barely defend myself. My opponent toyed with me for a round, setting me up. Then dropped me flat in the sixth.

  But I couldn’t wait for the sixth. Juba was tough, with real power, and his flashy punches were piling up points. I had to put him away now, before he could shake off his misery. And find the chink in my guard.

  Normally Pops would be yelling instructions in my ear. Not on this night. No need. We both knew what had to be done.

  “Seconds out!” the timekeeper called, slapping the ring apron with his palm for emphasis.

  “You did some damage,” Pops said, rinsing off my mouthpiece, sliding it in as I rose. “He thought he was getting a tune-up fight. So tune his ass up!” Grabbing the stool, the old man hoisted himself through the ropes.

  Across the ring, Juba was already dancing in place, angry, hurting, and hungry for payback. And if we started trading body shots?

  He’d kill me.

  It had to be now. I had to put him on the goddamn deck.

  Slamming my gloves together, I sucked in extra air, ready for Freddie.

  At the bell Juba came charging out of his corner, firing away like a machine gunner. Pumped up on pain and rage, he was desperately trying to smother my punches, keeping me too busy to land another body shot.

  No problem. I let him flail away. I was headhunting now, picking off Juba’s blows, waiting for a puncher’s chance. One clean shot for a knockout. Waiting . . . waiting . . . Bobbing, ducking . . . Knowing it could come any second now—

  Suddenly there it was! Juba threw a left hook so hard it carried him around when it missed, out of position, leaving his jaw wide open for a counter!

  Perfect!

  I threw a hard right, swiveling my hips into the punch, giving it everything I had—but Juba’s desperation-flailing roundhouse landed first, grazing my temple.

  Totally focused, I barely felt Juba’s punch. But it had just enough zip on it to make me miss mine. Big-time.

  The force of my blow spun me off balance, and as I straightened up, I stumbled over Juba’s left foot, dropping to one knee.

  Jesus! What the hell just happened?

  I jumped up immediately, more embarrassed than hurt. But the ref was already counting, giving me a standing eight.

  “Hey!” I shouted around my mouthpiece. “No knockdown! I freakin’ tripped!”

  Across the ring, Juba was dancing in his corner, arms raised in victory, showboating for the crowd. And the fans were eating it up. Screw the fine points of pugilism. Your freakin’ grandma can understand a knockdown. Goddamn it!

  “You okay, Maguire?” The ref was peering into my eyes intently.

  “Dammit, Bozo, I tripped!” I mumbled around my mouthpiece.

  “Answer up, Maguire! Can you continue or not?”

  “Hell yes!” I roared, desperate to get back into the fight. “Get out of the way!”

  Grabbing my gloves, Bozo wiped them off on his white shirt, then stepped back and waved us on.

  I charged into Juba’s corner, but he danced out of reach, grinning, hot-dogging around the ring for the last half minute of the round.

  “You’re blowin’ it, Mick,” Pops yelled as I sagged on his stool. “Dammit, I told you—”

  I leaned back, closing my eyes, tuning him out. Knowing he was right.

  Crap! Decked by a dumb-ass lucky punch. Juba hadn’t laid a glove on me all night. And he wouldn’t have to, now. The knockdown would decide this bout. Pops was ranting at me, practically frothing at the mouth, more frantic than I’d ever seen him—

  The ref was leaning over me, checking me out. “You good to go, Maguire?”

  “Terrific,” I snapped.

  “Glad to hear it,” he said dryly, then trotted back to the center of the ring to wait on the bell. I noticed he didn’t bother asking Juba if he was okay. This fight was over unless I could nail Juba and put him down—

  But I couldn’t. The traditional glove touch before the final round was the closest I came to landing a punch.

  Juba danced the last rounds away, running for his freakin’ life but looking good doing it. Every time I tried to close with him, he got on his bicycle, firing flurries of flashy, pitty-pat punches with nothing on them, confident he had the fight in the bag.

  Which he damn well did.

  Bozo cautioned Juba twice about the running, but that didn’t mean squat to the fans. Juba was still showboating at the final bell. Five seconds to confer with the judges and the ref was raising Juba’s hand in victory while the ring announcer bellowed the unanimous decision. There was a smattering of applause, but the crowd was already thinning, headed for the johns and beer booths before the next bout.

  “Lucky goddamn punch,” Pops said glumly, cutting the laces off my gloves in the dressing room. “You rocked him good in the second. What the heck happened?”

  “I had him hurt, I went for the knockout. I was so paranoid about catching a liver shot—”

  “This is all on me,” the old man said. “I should have pulled you.”

  “You didn’t make me trip over his damn foot, Pops.”

  “I know, but . . .” He swallowed. “We’ve got more trouble, Mick. Them IOUs I spread around? They’ve been bought up. All of ’em.”

  “By who?”

  “Tony Dukarski. Used to fight some himself—he’s a promoter now. Do you know him?”

  “Tony Duke? He’s not just a promoter, Pops, he’s mobbed up. How much are we down to him? Exactly?”

  “The better part of fifteen grand. It might as well be a million. I don’t have it.”

  “The loser’s purse is a thousand, but—hold on. Fifteen grand? Dukarski’s in the business. He must know we don’t have that kind of money lying around. Why would he buy up your paper?”

  “He’s backing a new fighter, a stud from L.A., Toro Esteban. Bad-lookin’ dude, prison-yard muscles, tattoos, dreadlocks. Big puncher. Killed a Mexican fighter down in Tijuana. They call him Toro the Terminator now.”

  “What’s that got to do with us?”

  “Toro’s wins are nobodies, Mexicans from Dago or Tijuana. Everybody’s fifty and one down there, no way to confirm their rec­ords. I hear Tony Duke’s lookin’ for some . . . local bouts.”

  He looked away, unable to meet my eyes.

  “My God,” I groaned. “You mean Dukarski’s lining up mopes his boy can knock down to pump up his win record? Mopes like me, for instance?”

  “It don’t matter what he’s doin’,” Pops said. “Bein’ down fifteen to Tony Duke ain’t like owin’ the Bank of Detroit, Mick. We’re in deep shit here. We gotta talk to the man.”

  We found Tony “Duke” Dukarski holding court at a third-tier table overlooking the main floor. A dozen people around him, all as drunk as he was, except for his bodyguard, Cheech Gamez, a hawk-faced Latin in a gray silk suit, narrow tie. Cheech was strapped, nickel-silver automatic in a shoulder holster winking from beneath his sport coat. Tony Duke was carrying too, a piece tucked in his waistband. Not really concealed; he clearly wanted folks to see it.

  His new fighter wasn’t armed, but didn’t need to be. He was at the end of the table and Pops was right. Even in a slick new sharkskin suit an
d tie, Toro the Terminator looked bad to the bone, prison-yard muscles straining the seams of his tailored jacket.

  Dukarski looked bad too, in the original sense of the word. Big and fleshy, with thinning blond hair, he was clearly on a downhill slide. His cheeks were splotchy from booze, seamed with smile lines from his fixed salesman’s grin. His brows were shiny with scar tissue from his time in the ring, but his fighting days were a while back. Looked like he was carousing himself into an early coronary now, laughing all the way.

  “Mr. Dukarski? I got word you wanted to talk to us?”

  “Irish Pops Maguire and his star fighter,” Tony Duke said, not bothering to offer his hand. “Hey, everybody, say hello to Irish Mick and his Pops.”

  A couple of drunk chicks at the table glanced up. Cleaned up, in a clean white shirt and jeans, I’m saloon-society passable, if you ignore the scars around my eyes and a deep nick in my upper lip, souvenir of a head butt. The girls weren’t interested. They’d just seen me lose.

  “Siddown, have a drink,” Tony Duke slurred. “You’ll probably want a shot to go with the one put you on your ass, Mick. Nurse!” he bellowed at a passing waitress, stuffing a ten down her bra. “Scotch all around.”

  “I’ll have a beer,” I said, swallowing my anger. I sat opposite Dukarski with Pops beside me. Pops went with the Scotch. A double.

  “Have you met the Terminator, Mick?”

  Toro offered a sizable paw, but it wasn’t a contest of strength. He shook gently, Spanish style.

  “Tough break, trippin’ like that, Irish,” he said. “Your last fight was bad luck too. Your shoulder was screwed in the third. Why didn’t your papa throw the towel?”

  “I was ahead on points, tried to go the distance, squeeze out a win.”

  “Gutsy, but stupid. I would have busted you up like a wrecking ball. Hit you so hard whole damn family would’ve spit blood for a month.”

  I eyed him, but let it pass.

  “Want some advice, Irish?” Toro said, leaning forward, his massive mahogany face only inches from mine. “You looked different in the ring tonight. Fought different too. Like you were scared. I think you were. You should back away from the game now, before your brains get scrambled or you get kilt. Maybe I kill you.”