When the bell sounded, he came off his stool like he was jet-propelled. I threw a pillow-soft jab in his general direction and started back-pedaling to the ropes. The black guy didn't waste any time countering my little jabs-he pulled his right hand all the way down to his hip, trying for one killer punch that would end it all. That was the opening. I stepped forward and fired a left hook-caught him flush on the chin coming in, and down he went.
But then the plan came unglued. He took an eight-count, shaking his head to clear it. He got to his feet so smoothly that I knew I hadn't really hurt him. The black guy waved me in and I charged, pinning him to the ropes, firing shot after shot at his head. But he wasn't just a tough guy-he was a pro. He blocked everything with his elbows, picking off my punches until I realized I was running out of gas. I leaned against him to get a breath-he buried his head in my chest to guard against an uppercut. I collapsed all my weight on his neck, stepping on his toes, not giving him an inch of room to punch. The guard in charge of the bell rang it early-he'd bet on me too.
I let him chase me through the second round, still a step faster than he was. He wasn't going to charge again-just taking his time, punching so hard my arms ached from blocking. He caught me good at the beginning of the third round-I felt a rib go from a right hook. He doubled up, catching me on the bridge of the nose with the same hand. "Grab him!" I heard the Prof scream, and I brought my gloves up over his elbows, pulling his hands under my armpits until the referee forced us apart. He butted me on the break, aiming for my nose. I staggered back, letting my knees wobble to get closer to the ground, letting him come in. I threw a Mexican left hook-so far south of the border that I connected squarely with his cup. The black guy dropped both hands to his crotch and I threw a haymaker at his exposed head-missed by a foot and fell down from the effort. The referee wiped off my gloves, calling it a slip, killing time.
He came at me again. I couldn't breathe through my nose, so I spit out the mouthpiece, catching a sharp right-hand lead a second later. I heard the Prof yell "Thirty seconds!" just before another shot dropped me to the canvas.
I was on my feet by the count of six, with just enough left to dodge his wild lunge. He went sailing past me into the ropes-I fired a rabbit punch to the back of his head, moved against him, pinning him to the ropes with his back to me. He whipped an elbow into my stomach and spun around, hooking with both hands, knowing he had to finish it. I grabbed his upper body, feeling the punches to my ribs, driving my forehead hard into his eyes, not giving him room to punch. If I'd had to let go of him I would have fallen for good.
I was out on my feet when I heard the bell. It took four men to pull him off me. We won almost six hundred cartons of cigarettes that day. The prison even threw in a free bridge for my missing teeth.
"If you lost money that day, you bet on the other guy," I told him. "The bet was that I couldn't last the three rounds."
"I bet on you to win," the blond said.
I shrugged my shoulders-it wasn't my problem that some true-believer couldn't get with the program.
"You didn't even try and beat that nigger," the blond said, like he was accusing me of treason.
"I was trying to survive," I told him reasonably. Just the way I was trying to do now. "Look, pal, it's not a big deal. How much did you lose?"
"Three fucking cartons," he said. Like it was his sister's virginity.
"Tell you what I'll do. It was a few years ago, right? Figure the price has gone up a bit-how about a half-yard for each carton? A hundred and fifty bucks, and we'll call it square?"
The blond stared at me, still not sure if I was laughing at him.
"You serious?"
"Dead serious," I told him, slipping my hand into my coat pocket.
The blond couldn't make up his mind, his eyes shifting from Pansy to me. The guy with the sunglasses finally closed the books. "Let it rest, B.T.," he said. The blond let out a breath. "Okay," he said.
The blond started over to me for the money-Pansy went rigid. Her teeth ground together with a sound like a cement truck shifting into gear.
"I'll give it to you when I leave," I told the blond. Even a genius like him understood. He stepped back against the fence, still flexing the muscles in his arms. Pansy was real impressed.
"Can we do business?" I asked the guy with the sunglasses.
He waved me over to the side, against the fence by the Mustang. I flatted my hand against Pansy's snout, telling her to stay where she was, and followed him over. I lit a cigarette, feeling Bobby against my back.
"One of your guys did some bodyguard work. Delivered some money to a day-care center-money was in a little satchel-like a doctor's bag."
I couldn't see the guy's eyes behind the sunglasses; he had his hands in his pockets-waiting for me to finish.
"There was a woman with the bodyguard. Maybe he was protecting her, maybe he was guarding the cash-I don't know."
"Anything else?" he asked.
"The woman, she's no youngster. Maybe my age, maybe older. And she has a house somewhere outside the city. Big house-nice grounds. Has a guy who works with her-a big, fat guy. And maybe a schoolbus-type vehicle."
"That's it?"
"That's it," I told him.
"And you want to know what?"
"All I want to know is who this woman is-where I can find her."
"You got a beef with her?"
I thought about it-didn't know if the bodyguard work was a one-shot deal or if the Real Brotherhood had a contract with her. "She has something I want," I told him, measuring out the words as carefully as a dealer putting cocaine on a scale.
He didn't say anything.
"If you've got a contract with her…then I'd like to ask you to get this thing I want from her. I'll pay for it."
"And if there's no contract?"
"Then I just want her name and address."
He smiled. It might have made a citizen relax; I kept my hands in my pockets. "And for us to get out of the way?" he asked.
"Yeah," I told him. "Exactly."
The blond moved away from the guy in the sunglasses, his back to the fence. Pansy's huge head tracked his movement as if she was the center of a big clock and he was the second hand.
"B.T.!" Bobby said, a warning in his voice. The blond stopped where he was-a slow learner.
"What is this thing you want?" the leader asked.
"That means you have a contract?"
"No. And I don't know where her stash is either."
"It's not dope I'm after," I told him.
The leader took off his sunglasses, looked at them in his hands as though they held the answer to something. He looked up at me. His eyes had that soft, wet glaze only born killers get-after they've fulfilled their destiny a few times. "You're a hijacker, right? That's what you do?"
I held my hands together and turned my palms out to him-cards on the table. "I'm looking for a picture-a photograph."
"Who's in the picture?"
"A kid," I told him.
He looked a question at me.
"A little kid-a sex picture, okay?"
The leader looked at the dark-haired guy standing next to him. "I thought it was powder," he said.
The dark-haired guy kept his face flat. "I never asked," he replied.
The leader nodded absently, thinking it through. "Yeah," he said, "who asks?"
I lit a cigarette, cupping my hands around the flame, watching the leader from a corner of my eye. He was scratching at his face with one finger, his eyes behind the sunglasses again.
"Bobby, you mind taking your friend inside for a couple of minutes? We've got something to talk over out here, okay?"