"Jesus help us," he said. "I didn't say he was Hackman. I said that's who he looks like."
"If it was Hackman they'd have made him come up and take a bow."
"If it was Hackman's fucking cousin they'd have made him take a bow, desperate as they are."
"But you're right," I said. "There's a definite resemblance."
"Not that he's the spitting image, mind you, but-"
"But there's a resemblance. That's not why he looks familiar. I wonder where I know him from."
"One of your meetings, maybe."
"That's possible."
"Unless that's a beer he's drinking. If he's a member of your lot he wouldn't be drinking a beer, would he now?"
"Probably not."
"Although not all of your lot make it, do they?"
"No, not all of us do."
"Well then, let's hope it's a Coke in his cup," he said. "Or if it's a beer, let's pray he gives it to the lad."
DOMINGUEZ got the better of it in the fifth round. A lot of his big punches missed, but a couple got through and hurt Rasheed. He rallied nicely at the end but the round still clearly belonged to the Latin fighter.
In the sixth, Rasheed took a straight right to the jaw and went down.
It was a solid knockdown and it brought the crowd to its feet. Rasheed was up at five and took the mandatory eight count, and when the ref motioned for them to resume fighting Dominguez rushed in swinging for the fences. Rasheed was wobbly but he showed a lot of class, ducking, slipping punches, playing for time in clinches, fighting back gamely. The knockdown came fairly early in the round, but at the end of the three minutes Rasheed was still on his feet.
"One more round," Mick Ballou said.
"No."
"Oh?"
"He had his chance," I said. "Like that fellow in the last bout, what was his name? The Irishman."
"The Irishman? What Irishman?"
"McCann."
"Ah. Black Irish, that would be. You think Dominguez is another one who doesn't know how to pull the trigger?"
"He knows how, he just didn't have what he needed. He threw too many punches. Punching tires you, especially when you don't hit anything. I think the round took more out of him than it did out of Rasheed."
"You think it'll go to the judges? They'll give it to Pedro then, unless your man Chance put the fix in."
You wouldn't fix a fight like that. There's no betting. I said, "It won't go to a decision. Rasheed'll knock him out."
"Matt, you're dreaming."
"You'll see."
"Do you want to bet? I don't want to bet money, not with you. What shall we bet?"
"I don't know."
I looked over at the father and son. Something was hovering at the edge of thought, nagging at me.
"If I win," he said, "we'll make a night of it and go to the eight o'clock mass at St. Bernard's. The butchers' mass."
"And if I win?"
"Then we won't go."
I laughed. "That's a great bet," I said. "We're already not going, so what would I be winning?"
"All right then," he said. "If you win I'll go to a meeting."
"A meeting?"
"A fucking AA meeting."
"Why would you want to do that?"
"I wouldn't want to do it," he said. "Isn't that the fucking point? I'd be doing it because I lost the bet."
"But why would I want you to go to a meeting?"
"I don't know."
"If you ever want to go," I said, "I'll be happy to take you. But I certainly don't want you to go on my account."
The father put his hand on the boy's forehead and smoothed his hair back. There was something about the gesture that hit me like a hard right hand to the heart. Mick said something but I'd gone momentarily deaf to it. I had to ask him to repeat it.
"Then I guess there's no bet," he said.
"I guess not."
The bell rang. The fighters rose from their stools.
"It's just as well," he said. "I think you're right. I think that fucking Pedro punched himself out."
THAT'S how it turned out. It wasn't that clear-cut in the seventh round because Dominguez was still strong enough to land a few shots that got the crowd cheering. But it was easier to get the crowd on its feet than to knock Rasheed off his, and he looked as strong as ever, and confident in the bargain. Late in the round he landed a short stiff right to the solar plexus and Mick and I looked at each other and nodded. Nobody had cheered, nobody had shouted, but that was the fight, and we knew it and so did Eldon Rasheed. I think Dominguez did, too.
Between rounds Mick said, "I got to hand it to you. You saw something in the round before that I never saw. All those body punches, they're money in the bank, aren't they? They don't look like anything at all, and then all at once your man has no legs under him. Speaking of legs."
The placard girl was letting us know that Round Eight was next.
"She looks familiar, too," I said.
"You met her at a meeting," he suggested.
"Somehow I don't think so."
"No, you'd remember her, wouldn't you? A dream, then. You were with her in a dream."
"That's more like it." I looked from her to the man with the polka-dot tie, then back at her again. "They say that's one of the ways you know you're middle-aged," I said. "When everybody you meet reminds you of somebody else."
"Is that what they say?"
"Well, that's one of the things they say," I said, and they rang the bell for the eighth round. Two minutes into it Eldon Rasheed staggered Peter Dominguez with a brutal left hook to the liver. Dominguez's hands fell and Rasheed dropped him with a right cross to the jaws.
He was up at eight, but it must have been pure machismo that got him on his feet. Rasheed was all over him, and three shots to the midsection put Dominguez on the canvas again. This time the ref didn't even bother to count. He stepped between the fighters and raised Rasheed's arms overhead.
Most of the same people who'd been rooting for a Dominguez knockout were on their feet again now, cheering for Rasheed.
WE were standing next to Chance and Kid Bascomb, over by the blue corner, when the ring announcer quieted the crowd and told us what we already knew, that the referee had stopped the fight after two minutes and thirty-eight seconds of the eighth round, that the winner by a technical knockout was Eldon "the Bulldog" Rasheed. There were two more four-round bouts to follow, he added, and we wouldn't want to miss a minute of the nonstop boxing action here at the New Maspeth Arena.
The boxers competing in those two four-rounders had a thankless task ahead of them, because they were going to be playing to a near-empty house. The fights were on the card as insurance for FBCS. If the prelims had finished early, one of them would have been shoehorned in before the main event; if Rasheed had kayoed Dominguez in the second round, or been knocked out himself, there would be a bout or two left to fill up the television time slot.
But it was almost eleven now, so neither of the remaining bouts would make it onto the screen. And just about everybody was heading for home, like baseball fans streaming out of Dodger Stadium in the seventh inning of a tie game.
Richard Thurman was in the ring now, helping his cameraman pack up his gear. I didn't see the placard girl anywhere. I didn't see the father and son team from ringside, either, although I looked for them, thinking I'd point them out to Chance and see if he recognized the man.
The hell with it. Nobody was paying me to figure out why some doting father looked familiar. My job was to get a line on Richard Thurman, and to find out whether or not he had murdered his wife.
Chapter 2
Back in November, Richard and Amanda Thurman had attended a small dinner party on Central Park West. They left the party shortly before midnight. It was a pleasant night; it had been unseasonably warm all week, so they elected to walk home.