Otto Penzler (ed) - Murder 06 - Murder on the Ropes raw Read online

  Introduction and compilation copyright © 2001 by Otto Penzler

  “Sunlight Shining on Water” copyright © 2001 by Doug Allyn

  “In the Tank” copyright © 2001 by Andrew Bergman

  “You Don't Even Feel It” copyright © 2001 by Lawrence Block

  “A Winning Combination” copyright © 2001 by Brendan DuBois

  "The Fix” copyright © 2001 by Thomas H. Cook

  “Flash” copyright © 2001 by Loren D. Estleman

  “The Championship of Nowhere" copyright © 2001 by James Grady

  “The Man Who Boxed Forever” copyright © 2001 by Edward D. Hoch

  “The Trial Horse” copyright © 2001 by Clark Howard

  “Long Odds” copyright © 2001 by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Dream Street” copyright © 2001 by Mike Lupica

  “The Man Who Fought Roland LaStarza” copyright © 2001 by The Ontario Review

  “The Problem of Leon" copyright © 2001 by John Shannon

  “Midnight Emissions" copyright © 2001 by F.X. Toole

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be produced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Text Design by KL Design

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Murder on the Ropes: original boxing mysteries / edited by Otto Penzler.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references (p.).

  ISBN 1-893224-33-3

  1. Boxing stories. 2. Boxers (Sports)—Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories,

  American. 1. Penzler, Otto.

  PS648.B67 M87. 2001 813’.087208355—dc21

  2001055866

  New Millennium Press

  A Division of NM World Media, Inc.

  301 North Canon Drive

  Suite 214

  Beverly Hills, CA 90210

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Larry Kirshbaum

  With deep respect and

  heartfelt affection

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  SUNLIGHT SHINING ON WATER - by Doug Allyn

  IN THE TANK - by Andrew Bergman

  YOU DON’T EVEN FEEL IT - by Lawrence Block

  A WINNING COMBINATION - by Brendan DuBois

  THE FIX - by Thomas H. Cook

  FLASH - by Loren D. Estleman

  THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF NOWHERE - by James Grady

  THE MAN WHO BOXED FOREVER - by Edward D. Hoch

  THE TRIAL HORSE - by Clark Howard

  LONG ODDS by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  DREAM STREET - by Mike Lupica

  THE MAN WHO FOUGHT ROLAND LASTARZA by Joyce Carol Oates

  THE PROBLEM OF LEON by John Shannon

  MIDNIGHT EMISSIONS - by F.X. Toole

  INTRODUCTION

  Boxing, known also as pugilism, prizefighting and the manly art, is among the oldest of all sports, with evidence of its existence in ancient Crete in 1500 B.c, Even the epics of Homer describe in breathless prose the heroic adventures of fighters:

  “So, when their fists were bound with thongs of force-giving ox-skin/Coiling the long bands round their arms, they met in the mid-ring/Breathing slaughter against each other....”

  Although the rules of boxing have changed dramatically over its long history (indeed, in its earliest years, it would be hard indeed to find any rules), some of the practices have changed less than purists might wish.

  There was no footwork in the beginning age of boxing (though fans of George Foreman, Jimmie Thunder and Michael Grant might wonder how much that has changed), it being regarded as cowardice to avoid a punch (by which standard Arturo Gatti must be regarded as the most courageous fighter of his time, since he has yet to avoid his first one). Wrestling was allowed (a sadly uninformed “Bonecrusher” Smith evidently was kept in the dark about this rule change) until the marquess of Queensberry rules were adopted in 1867 and initiated the modern era of boxing.

  In much of the long history of prizefighting it was permissible to gouge, kick, head-butt, punch below the belt and bite (as boxing historians will recall, the notion that these offenses against good sportsmanship were outlawed in 1839 must have failed to reach the ears of such gentlemen of the ring as Mike Tyson and Andrew Golota, who clearly retain a great affection for the early traditions of the sport). Those only occasionally followed proscriptions were known as the London Prize Ring rules, which brought some semblance of organization to boxing.

  In an attempt to make the sport more palatable to a higher class of people, John Sholto Douglas, the eighth marquess of Queensberry, lent his name to the new rules, which were regarded by the toughs of the ring as effete. These included the now fundamental tenets of boxing: three-minute rounds with a one-minute rest period between rounds; a ten-second count if a fighter was knocked down, and the fight ended if he could not get up unaided; and padded gloves. When John L. Sullivan, king of the bare-knuckle fighters, finally agreed to fight under those rules (not to help the sport, but to get a bigger payday), they became part of the boxing scene forever.

  While there are plenty of exceptions, boxing has traditionally appealed to tough, uneducated young men, often the victims of prejudice and bigotry, who have seen the sport as a means of literally fighting their way out of squalor and deprivation to fame and fortune.

  Not surprisingly, perhaps, for a sport in which few make it to the top and many attempt it, and which features one man against another, not an entire team against another, boxing has been a rich breeding ground for corruption and related crimes.

  In no other contemporary sport does an athlete put so much at stake (often his very life) for such small rewards ($50 for a preliminary club fight is not unusual). Can anyone be surprised that a better payday for taking an early dive is appealing to some fighters, whose managers, trainers, and others connected with them stand to make a little killing (so to speak) by placing the right bet?

  Everyone wants to watch a championship fight these days. Promoters are eager to give fans what they want, so there are more sanctioning bodies with more initials than a truckload of Campbell’s alphabet soup. And there are so many weight divisions ranked by these organizations (junior middleweight, middleweight, super middleweight, etc.) that there are guys carrying spit buckets who get ranked, especially if the promoters are paid off. No, don’t be too shocked. It has actually happened. And some judges, bought and paid for by the likes of Don King, the colorful impresario who makes fight fans long for the relatively clean days of Blinky Palermo and Frankie Carbo, make Ray Charles seem eagle-eyed.

  So why does boxing appeal so deeply and relentlessly to so many of us? Perhaps because, in the midst of all the muck, there is something inherently pure about two men, physical equals, matched in a visceral mano a mano contest, with no one to turn to during the three minutes that can seem like three hours when someone is hitting you very hard.

  The violence that is so inherent in the very definition of boxing has resulted in serious injuries in the ring over the years, and occasionally even some deaths. There are also crimes, including murder, associated with boxing that have occurred outside the ring. (Let’s have a moment of silence for such upstanding citizens as Charles “Sonny” Liston and Oscar Bonavena.) There are more than a few episodes (mainly fictional) that fill the following pages, and these stories are narrated by some of the finest crime writers in the United States.

  Doug Allyn majored i
n criminal psychology at the University of Michigan, served in military intelligence during the Vietnam War and followed those career paths with twenty-five years as a rock guitarist. He began his mystery writing career fifteen years ago and has published five novels and nearly sixty short stories, winning or being nominated for every major literary award in his field, including the Edgar Allan Poe Award for 1995.

  Andrew Bergman, in addition to being the author of three novels featuring Jack LeVine, has for more than a quarter-century been one of America’s most successful screenwriters, especially of such comic masterpieces as Blazing Saddles, Fletch, The Freshman, Honeymoon in Vegas, Soapdish, and The In-Laws. “In the Tank” is his first short story.

  Lawrence Block enjoys both critical and popular success as one of the most prolific and versatile writers in the mystery world, with works ranging from the brooding darkness of the Matt Scudder series to the light comedy of his novels about the burglar and bookseller Bernie Rhodenbarr to the perfectly crafted stories about his amoral hit man, Keller. He is a multiple Edgar winner and Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America.

  Brendan DuBois is the author of four novels, one of which, Resurrection Day, will soon be made into a major motion picture. He has received even more acclaim for his short stories, which appear regularly in Playboy and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Two have been selected for Best American Mystery Stories of the Year and one, “The Dark Snow,” was named to Best American Mystery Stories of the Century.

  Thomas H. Cook has written more than a dozen books, three of which have been nominated for Edgars in three different categories, with The Chatham School Affair winning for Best Novel of the Year in 1997. His only previous mystery short story, “Fatherhood,” won the Herodotus Award as Best Historical Short Story of the Year.

  Loren D. Estleman has written many novels of crime, mystery and suspense, as well as several highly regarded westerns. His hard-boiled novels about Amos Walker, set in Detroit, are among the genre’s favorites. Estleman, once a boxer himself, says, “There isn’t a day goes by, particularly when I’m shaving in the morning and listening to the rush-hour traffic reports, that I don’t thank God I wasn’t a better fighter.”

  James Grady, a former Senate aide and investigative reporter for columnist Jack Anderson, is the author of numerous detective stories and thrillers, the best known of which is Six Days of the Condor, filmed as Three Days of the Condor with Robert Redford and Faye Dunaway.

  Edward D. Hoch is one of the most creative and prolific short story writers ever to have produced mystery fiction. His stories have appeared in every issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine for more than twenty years, during which time they have been frequent nominees for most major mystery awards. He won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Short Story of the Year in 1968 for “The Oblong Room.” He is a former president of the Mystery Writers of America.

  Clark Howard, a former boxer, has had three short stories nominated for Edgars and a fourth, “Horn Man,” won the award from the Mystery Writers of America in 1981. He has also had Edgar nominations for two true crime books, Six Against the Rock (1977) and Zebra (1979), his account of the notorious “Zodiac” murders in San Francisco.

  Stuart M. Kaminsky’s enormously successful series about 1940s Hollywood detective Toby Peters has featured his involvement with Charlie Chaplin, Humphrey Bogart, Mae West and Joe Louis, among others. He also writes books about Abe Lieberman, a Chicago detective, and Porfiry Rostnikov, a Russian policeman who starred in 13 books, including the Edgar-winning A Cold Red Sunrise.

  Mike Lupica is an award-winning sportswriter and columnist for the New York Daily News. He is also one of the stars of the popular weekly television program The Sports Reporters. His mystery writing career includes the Peter Finley series, the first of which, Dead Air, was nominated for an Edgar and then was filmed for CBS as Money, Power and Murder.

  Joyce Carol Oates is perhaps the most critically acclaimed writer of her generation. Nominated for six National Book Awards and winner of that prestigious honor, as well as of the PEN/ Malamud Award for Achievement in the Short Story, her short fiction has been published in Best American Short Stories of the Century, Best American Mystery Stories of the Century, The O. Henry Awards, The Pushcart Prize, and every other collection of importance. Her essay “On Boxing” is one of the most perceptive pieces ever written about the sport.

  John Shannon is the author of four novels about Jack Liffey, who has a talent for finding lost children: The Concrete River, The Cracked Earth, The Poison Sky and The Orange Curtain. The character, the novels and the author have been praised by Michael Connelly, George Pelecanos, James Crumley, Robert B. Parker, Thomas Perry, James Sallis, Kent Anderson and The New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, the Los Angeles Times and countless other publications.

  F.X. Toole is the pseudonym of Jerry Boyd, a longtime boxing trainer and cutman who has previously been an actor, Teamster, salesman, bartender and bullfighter. His first book, Rope Bums: Stories from the Corner, was selected by The New York Times as one of its Notable Books of the Year 2000.

  Now that you have been introduced to the principals...let’s get it on!

  —Otto Penzler

  SUNLIGHT SHINING ON WATER

  by Doug Allyn

  Mick never saw the punch. Caught him by surprise in the third round of a two-bit preliminary bout.

  Shouldn’t have signed for the fight at all. Took it on short notice for short money. But it had been a thin year and there was an outside chance the bout might be televised.

  His opponent was Kid Ibo, a Nigerian fighting out of Chicago. Middleweight. Black and hard as an ebony club. Tribal scars gouged in his cheeks. Ibo looked like he ate lions for lunch. Fought like it too.

  First round, Mick and the Nigerian both came on strong, trading inside, testing each other, throwing a lot of leather but blocking most of it. The crowd cheered the action but it was all sizzle, no meat to it.

  Kid Ibo had power, though. Mick felt it when he slipped a right cross Ibo aimed at his throat. The punch grazed his shoulder. And widened his eyes. The Nigerian was for real. Dangerous.

  Fully focused now, Mick picked up the pace and took Ibo to school. Boxing 101. Hammering the Kid’s body with sharp combinations, following immediately with a cross to the head.

  The Nigerian went for it. Started raising his guard a tad after the last body shot, anticipating a head shot. Big mistake.

  As the round wound down, Mick suddenly reversed his pattern, started low, then went lower, digging a hook under the

  Nigerian’s elbow as he raised his hands, drove it halfway to his liver, saw him wince.

  Ibo backed away, grinning, shaking his head like the punch was nothing.

  Yeah, right. Mick quickly worked the same combination again before the Nigerian could figure it out, jammed another hook into the same spot, flat-footed, with serious steam on it.

  No clowning this time. Eyes narrowing in pain, Ibo backpedaled, dancing away from Mick, dancing the last fifteen seconds of the round. Danced all the way back to his freakin’ corner at the bell.

  Hurting. Definitely.

  “You got him goin’, Irish,” Nate Cohen grinned as Mick dropped onto his stool, breathing deep, nostrils flared, sucking in all the air he could hold, smelling the crowd, the smoke, the whiskey rolling off Nate like aftershave. Ignoring it, Mick focused on the Nigerian across the ring.

  Tall for a middleweight, Ibo was rangy, long arms like Tommy Hearns. The tribal scars gleamed beneath the Vaseline on his cheeks, giving him a fierce, predatory look.

  But beneath it, Mick sensed Ibo’s pain. Brow furrowed, teeth bared, the Nigerian couldn’t straighten up on his stool, even when his cornerman tugged on his waistband, trying to relax his abdominals.

  Mick knew that pain. Knew Ibo felt broken. Mick had taken a shot like it in his only championship bout. Hadn’t finished him at the time, but it set him up for the knockout in the seventh.

  Now it was Ibo’s t
urn. Only Mick couldn’t wait for the seventh. This was a lousy four-round preliminary. Only two to go. He had to take him out quick.

  Deacon Washburn was yelling instructions in his ear, had been since Mick sat down. Tuning him out, Mick checked the crowd. Fight night at a Detroit Ojibwa casino. Mom-and-pop weekend gamblers who wouldn’t know a right hook from bad nookie. They knew the fight was strictly from hunger, though. A warmup, two nobodies killing each other, killing time before the main event, an IABF cruiser-weight title bout.

  Mick glanced up. The club’s TV cameras were running, red eyes glowing in the smoky haze over the ring. If he could put Ibo down hard, maybe he’d make ESPN’s highlight film. Have to do it with style, though. And fast.

  “Seconds out,” the timekeeper called, banging on the ring for emphasis.

  “Have you heard a fuckin’ word I said?” Washburn demanded.

  “Sure,” Mick said. “Work the body, stay on him.” It was what Wash always said. “How about I finish him instead?”

  “Then do it, Irish,” Wash growled, rinsing Mick’s mouthpiece, sliding it in. “We need this win bad. Don’t let him get away.” Grabbing the stool, he hoisted himself through the ropes.

  Mick frowned. Wash sounded worried, which was odd. Wash never worried. Through bad times and good, his faith in Mick never wavered. What was up with him?