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

  Didn’t matter. Mick was on his own once the bell rang. Always had been. That was the beauty of the game. In the end, it came down to the two guys inside the ropes. Nobody else.

  At the bell, Ibo came out in high gear, flailing like a windmill. Wired up on adrenaline and pain. And fear. Mick knew the feeling. Been there.

  He let Ibo swing away, catching everything on his arms and elbows, waiting for his opening. Headhunting. Looking for a one-punch knockout.

  And there it was! Ibo threw a left hook so hard it carried him around when it missed, leaving his jaw wide open for a counter.

  Perfect! Mick brought the right full force, swiveling his hips into the punch—and walked into Ibo’s desperation roundhouse right, catching it flush on the temple.

  Totally focused, Mick barely felt Ibo’s punch. Until he was stumbling off balance into the ropes. And going down. What the hell? And the ref was counting.

  Mick jumped up immediately, more embarrassed than hurt. Ibo was dancing in his corner, arms raised in victory, showboating for the crowd. And they were eating it up. Even morons could understand a knockdown. Damn it!

  “You okay?” The ref was peering into his eyes intently.

  “Hell yes!” Mick roared around his mouthpiece.

  “What?”

  Mick nodded vigorously, desperate to get the ref out of the way and get back into the fight. Grabbing his gloves, the ref wiped them off on his white shirt, then stepped back and waved them on.

  Mick charged into Ibo’s corner, but the Nigerian danced away, grinning, hot-dogging around the ring for the last half minute of the round.

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

  Mick leaned back, closed his eyes, tuning Wash out. Shit! Decked by a dumb-ass lucky punch. Ibo hadn’t laid a hand on him all night. Wouldn’t have to, now. The knockdown would decide the bout. Wash was ranting, wired up, worried. So was Mick.

  “Last round,” the ref said, leaning in over Wash’s shoulder. “Touch ’em up when you come out. You okay, Shannon?”

  “Terrific,” Mick snapped.

  “Glad to hear it,” the ref said mildly, trotting over to remind the Nigerian’s corner it was the last round. Mick noticed he didn’t bother asking Ibo if he was okay. The fight was already over unless he could catch Ibo in the last round and put him down...

  He couldn’t. They did the traditional glove touch before starting the last round. It was the closest Mick came to landing a punch.

  Ibo danced the round away, running for his freakin’ life but looking good doing it, getting on his bicycle every time Mick tried to close with him, confident he had the fight in the bag. Which he damn sure did.

  The ref warned him once, but it didn’t mean dick at that point. Ibo was still dancing at the final bell. Five seconds to confer with the judges and the ref was raising Ibo’s hand in victory while the ring announcer bellowed the unanimous decision as the crowd ordered drinks or hit the johns before the next not-shit warmup bout.

  “Lucky punch,” Deacon Washburn said glumly, easing his bulk down at Mick’s table in the casino lounge. Wash’s black sharkskin suit and old-timey Afro attracted a few stares, tourists wondering if he was Fats Domino. “You rocked him in the second. What the fuck happened? I told you to work Ibo’s body—”

  “Screw that, Wash. I blew it, okay? Dropped a fight I should’ve won. That’s on me and I know it. I also know it was a crummy match. Why’d you stick me in a four-round prelim with a no-namer like Ibo?”

  “He was the best we could do. And Ibo ain’t a no-name, he’s a new name, which is more than I can say for Irish Mick Shannon. Ibo was eight wins, no losses coming into this, now he’s nine-zip, Mick. What’s your record?”

  “Sixteen and five—no, sixteen and six after tonight. Sweet Jesus, Wash, I’m only a couple of losses away from Palookaville.” “C’mon, Mick, it ain’t as bad as all that,” Nate Cohen said, joining them, carefully placing two drinks on the table before sitting down. Both drinks were his. “You got time to turn things around. You’re still a young man.”

  “I’m twenty-eight, Nate.”

  “Like I said.” Nate licked his lips before knocking back the first scotch. “A young man.”

  “Compared to you, George Foreman’s a punk kid, Nate.” “Don’t be raggin’ on Nate,” Wash said. “He didn’t deck you.” “I know, dammit. Look, Wash, just give me my money and let me get out of here. I’m not in a party mood, okay?”

  “I can’t,” Wash said slowly. “I, um, I bet our front money on you, Mick. Nate’s kicked in his share too. We knew you could take Ibo and...” He swallowed. “Anyway. It’s gone.”

  “What the hell, Wash, you had no right to do that! How much did we lose?”

  “All of it. And a lot more. I gave him odds.”

  Mick froze, staring at him. “What odds? Who’d you bet with?” “You know Tom Ducatti? Owns a couple bars, a car dealership in Royal Oak?”

  “Tommy Duke? I’ve seen him around the game. Enough to know he’s mobbed up. How much are we out? Exactly?”

  “Three grand at three to one. We’re down nine.”

  “Nine! Jesus! Have you got nine, Wash? I sure as hell haven’t.” “You know I ain’t got spit either, Mick. I figured it was our chance to get ahead, but...anyway, maybe it’ll work out. Tommy’s backin’ a new fighter, a guy from L.A., Calvin Kroffut. I seen film on him. Looks bad to the bone, gang-banger tattoos, dreadlocks. Learned to box in prison and he’s already eighteen and one. Killed a Messican kid in a bout down in Tijuana. Killer Kroffut, they’re callin’ him now, Big K. Sells a lot of tickets.”

  “So? What’s that got to do with us?”

  “K’s eighteen wins were nobodies, mostly Latins or convicts. Hell, south of the border everybody’s forty and two and Kid Gavilan was they daddy, you know? Tommy’s lookin’ for local bouts. He, um, he wants to talk to you, Mick.”

  Wash looked away, unable to meet Mick’s stare. “My god,” Mick groaned. “What you really mean is, Tommy’s lining up tomato cans his boy can knock down to pump up his record, right?”

  “Maybe,” Wash admitted. “But it don’t matter. You’ve gotta talk to him, Mick. We’re in a lot of trouble here.”

  Mick found Tommy Duke holding court at a table on the dais overlooking the casino’s main floor. A dozen people around him, two chicks, half in the bag, Tommy’s bodyguard, a hawk-faced Mex in a gray silk suit, narrow tie. Ramos? Something like that.

  Tommy’s new fighter was at the end of the table. Wash was right. Even in a suit and tie Kroffut looked super bad.

  So did Tommy Ducatti, but in the original sense of the word. Big, fleshy, with thinning black hair, Tommy looked like a jock going to seed. Fast. His ruddy face was seamed with smile lines from his salesman’s pasted-on grin. Carousing himself into an early coronary, laughing all the way.

  “Mr. Ducatti? My manager said you wanted to see me?” “Irish Mickey Shannon,” Tommy said, not bothering to offer his hand. “Hey everybody, say hello to Irish Mick.” No one looked up but Ramos, who nodded. Mick didn’t return it. Guys like Ramos were all over the fight game like lice. “Siddown, have a drink,” Tommy slurred. “Can probably use one, right?”

  “One,” Mick sighed, taking a chair opposite Ducatti. “A beer would do fine.”

  “Beer here,” Tommy bellowed at a passing waitress, who bustled off. “Have you met Killer K yet?”

  Kroffut eyed Mick, nodded, then shook his hand. Gently, Spanish style. “Saw you fight, Shannon. Bad luck.”

  “I make my own luck, good or bad,” Mick shrugged. “Haven’t seen you yet. People say you’re good.”

  “People are right,” Tommy interrupted. “I know you must be tired, Shannon, so let’s get to it. I got a problem I figure you can help me with.”

  “A fight?”

  “Somethin’ like that. It’s my sister. Some asshole is hittin’ on her, givin’ her a bad time, you know? I need somebody to straight
en him out. Seriously. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  “You want me to...work somebody over?” Mick couldn’t freakin’ believe it.

  “That’s what you do, isn’t it?” Duke said, leaning forward, booze sour on his breath. “I don’t care how you handle it, but I want the guy out of the picture, you know? Guy’s name is Tony Brooks, runs some kinda half-ass karate school on Dequinder. That’s where Maria—”

  “Whoa, we’ve got a mix-up here.” Mick rose, trying to hide his rage. “I’m a boxer, Mr. Ducatti. A pro, not some nickel-dime hood—”

  “Siddown,” Ramos snapped. “Man’s not finished talkin’.” “I’m finished,” Mick countered. “If you got a problem with that, pal, take your best shot.”

  “Whoa, whoa, everybody chill,” Tommy said, waving Ramos off. “Look, Shannon, your manager’s into me for nine large, which he lost bettin’ on you. I figure that makes you and your cornerman responsible, you know? All in it together. You got my money?” Mick shook his head.

  “Didn’t think so. Okay, you owe me big and I need a favor. Seems fair enough to me.”

  “Why me? Isn’t your rat-faced buddy up to it?”

  “People know Ramos works for me. If he handles it, cops might trace it back to me. You and me got no connection, Shannon. Until now. So. You gonna do this? Or do I send Ramos around to collect from your friends?”

  “They haven’t got the money either.”

  “That’s not my problem.” Tommy leaned back, confident now. “Lemme put it to you straight, Irish. Your career’s in the toilet, going round and round. I can help you out. Or flush you down. What’s it gonna be?”

  Mick didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He wanted to puke. Or punch Tommy’s lights out. He glanced out over the casino floor instead.

  Acres of slots, blackjack and craps tables. Monte Carlo, Motown style. Cash and major credit cards accepted. No personal checks, no dress code. No class. An hour ago he’d fought a warrior from Africa to entertain these stiffs. For what?

  He turned back to Tommy Duke. “What did you say the guy’s name was?”

  Mick’s car had been repo’d months before. Had to catch an early crosstown bus to the address Ducatti gave him. Found

  Brooks’ studio with no trouble, a storefront dojo a few blocks off the Cass Corridor. Martial Arts, Self-Defense, Fitness. Shotokan Karate, Tai Chi Chuan. Personal Training by Master Tony Brooks. By appointment only. Right.

  Mick bought coffee at a corner deli, took up position across from the dojo in an alley. Lurking. Feeling like a goddamn mugger. Brooks didn’t show till noon, a tall, light-skinned black, shaved head, goatee, wearing a maroon Nike running suit. Sore and surly, Mick trotted across the street, braced Brooks just as he put his key in the door.

  “Mr. Brooks? Can we talk a minute?”

  Brooks looked him over. Liquid brown eyes. Intelligent. No fear. Only curiosity. “Sure, come on in.”

  Mick followed Brooks inside. Big room, gleaming hardwood floor, Asian flags on the walls, racks of Oriental weapons: swords, staffs, daggers, some wooden, some chrome steel. Smelled clean, not like a real gym. “What can I do for you, Mister...?”

  “My name doesn’t matter. We’ve got trouble, you and me.” “Trouble?” Brooks seemed more puzzled than worried. Up close he looked big, light on his feet. “Don’t I know you?”

  “Nope, but you know Maria Ducatti, don’t you?”

  “Maria? Shit, is that what this is about?”

  “You’re gonna stay away from her, sport. Out of her life. You don’t see her, don’t call her anymore. Understand?”

  “I understand that psycho bitch went cryin’ to her big brother, laid a load of crap on him and he sent you, right?”

  “It doesn’t matter who sent me.”

  “Irish Mickey Shannon.” Brooks snapped his fingers. “Knew I knew you. Saw you fight a couple years ago at the Palace. Title fight. You looked awful that night.”

  “Had the flu. And this isn’t a social call.”

  “Right,” Brooks said, unzipping his jacket, tossing it aside. Well built, golden skin. Long ropy muscles, like a swimmer. Like a young Ali. “You here to work me over, Mick? Defend the lady’s honor?” He was edging toward a rack of swords as he spoke.

  “I just want to talk,” Mick said, stepping between Brooks and the weapons—and then he was flying. Dropping to a crouch, Brooks kicked his legs out from under him. Mick landed hard, flat on his ass. Swiveling like a ballerina, Brooks plucked a wooden sword from the rack. Swished it through the air, testing its heft, eyeing Mick.

  “Stay down,” Brooks said mildly. “No need for anybody to bleed here. Not over Maria Ducatti.”

  Mick shrugged, opening his hands. “Whatever you say, sport. You’re the guy with the sword.”

  “Want me to loan you one?”

  “I’d rather have a thirty-eight so I could shoot myself in the head, save you the trouble of whackin’ me to death. Jesus, I’m havin’ a crummy week, you know?”

  “Things must be pretty thin for you if you’re into this kind of work, Irish.”

  “I’m not. I mean, it’s the first time I ever mugged anybody. Guess it shows. Maybe I’m not cut out for a life of crime.”

  “The whole fight game’s one big crime, you ask me.” Brooks lowered the sword point to the floor. But kept it. “So what happened after you lost to the champ?”

  “Fought too soon, tryin’ to salvage my career. Screwed it up instead. And here I am.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, you came for nothing. I’m not bugging Maria Ducatti, she’s after me. Ever seen her?”

  Mick shook his head.

  “Butt-ugly as her brother and twice as dumb. Hired me as her personal trainer, figured it included stud service. Shows how dim she is. She’s not my type. You might be if you weren’t straight. Follow?”

  “Yeah. S000...I guess I can tell Tommy Duke his sister’s safe from your unwanted attentions?”

  “Oh, definitely. Tell him you kicked my ass if it’ll get her out of my life. Unless you still figure on trying it?”

  “No,” Mick said positively. “We’re done, Mr. Brooks. In fact, I’m done with the goon business. It’s not me.”

  “Wise choice.”

  “Can I get up now?”

  Brooks eyed him a moment, still hefting the sword. “Sure,” he said, offering him a hand up. “You okay?”

  “People keep asking me that,” Mick sighed, brushing off his pants. “Makes a guy wonder.”

  “You still fighting?”

  “Fought four rounds last night. Lost. That’s why I’m here.” “Then I wish you’d won.”

  “So do I, believe me. Thanks for not taking my head off with that thing.”

  “No charge. If you run into Maria, just tell her you scared me so bad I never want to see her again. Fair enough?”

  “Yeah, only...how did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Put me down like that.”

  “I swept your legs. A basic karate move. It mostly worked because you weren’t expecting it. Why?”

  “Like you said, things are thin for me. Maybe you can show me something that can help.”

  “They don’t allow leg sweeps in boxing. Or spinning back-fists or wheel kicks or most of the other stuff I teach.”

  “So what are you saying? All this Oriental shit is just window dressing?”

  “No, it’s real,” Brooks said, unoffended. “But...look, here’s the thing about karate. You learn moves, kicks, punches, blocks. Practice them over and over, same way every time, until they become reflexes. You with me?”

  “Reflexes, right.”

  “If you have to think about it, any physical action takes three-fifths of a second, minimum. A reflex only takes two. That’s why someone who knows karate can usually beat anyone who doesn’t. Their reflexes are quicker. There’s no magic to it. How long have you been boxing?”

  “Since I was fourteen. Why?”

  “A long time. Let me show you s
omething. I’ll try to slap your face. You just defend yourself. And please don’t hit me, okay?”

  Mick crouched. Brooks had quick hands, brought them from all directions. Mick had no trouble blocking them.

  “See,” Brooks said, grinning, straightening up. “You’ve got reflexes up the wazoo already, Irish. Umpty years worth. I can’t unteach them, wouldn’t if I could. Sorry.”

  “But there must be something. You weren’t even looking at me when you swept my feet. That’s why it worked so well. How did you do that?”

  “Oh, that,” Brooks nodded. “A Zen technique. There’s a lot of Zen in the martial arts. That one’s called Sunlight Shining on Water.”

  “Sunlight...what?”

  “Shining on Water. It sounds hokey, but it’s a simple technique. Remember what I said about reflex time versus thought-driven actions?”

  “Yeah, reflexes are quicker.”

  “Right. The Sunlight technique gives your brain something to think about, takes it out of the circuit, frees up your reflexes. Instead of looking at your opponent, you picture sunlight shining on calm water. Pure golden light.”

  “You mean...you do this while you’re fighting?”

  “Exactly. You don’t close your eyes or lower your guard. Everything’s still working. But if your opponent makes a move, your reactions will be pure reflex. It sounds a little nuts but it really works. Try it. Put your hands up. Now, picture a lake, sunlight shining on it. No waves, no breeze, just golden light shining on the water...”

  The punch came out of nowhere. Mick blocked it on reflex, barely kept himself from drilling Brooks with a counterpunch.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Brooks said, stepping back. “Peace, bro. So? Did it work?”

  “Yeah, I think it did a little,” Mick nodded, still pumped.

  “Your reaction seemed a tad quicker to me,” Brooks said. “Damned near fatal, in fact. But that’s you and me in an empty room. Do you figure on trying it in the ring?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then I’ll try to make your next fight, see how it works. Thing is, I’m not sure I did you a favor, Shannon. From sixteen to twenty-four, reflex speed stays roughly constant. After twenty-five it slows. A little more each year. No technique can change that, not Sunlight Shining on Water or anything else. It’s simple mathematics.”