"I feel your pain."
"No, seriously, Rudy. What can I do to get my life back?"
"Give us two paybacks."
Hearing him say that reminds me of last night.
"What happened to Richie?"
"You'll be pleased to know he came through with flying colors."
"You're kidding."
"Amazing what you can do when your life depends on it."
"Will you really let us go if we do what you ask?"
"Why wouldn't we? You can't have an agreement unless both parties fulfill their promises."
He's right! For the first time since meeting the guy, I'm beginning to get a glimmer of hope that everything that's happened can somehow be swept under the rug. Because what he just said is a hundred percent true: if both parties signed an agreement, and we both agreed to fulfill four requests, doing so should terminate the relationship. I've received four wishes, paid back two. It's a simple math equation.
Then he says, "You ever been in a fight?"
"What?"
"A fist fight."
"You mean, for real? A real fight?"
"Yeah."
"No, of course not. I don't know a thing about fighting."
"Yeah, that's what I figured."
"Why do you ask?"
"I signed you up to fight a guy tonight."
"You what?"
"Tonight at eight. We'll pick you up at seven."
"You can't be serious!"
"You know how you were asking me about the group payback last night?"
"What about it?"
"This is a perfect example. A bunch of people wished to see a fight between two guys with no training or experience."
"That doesn't make sense. Who would waste a wish on seeing a crappy fight?"
"It's not gonna be a crappy fight. It's gonna be a hell of a fight! And my money's on you, Champ!"
"I'm totally out of shape. There's no way I can win a fight. I can barely climb the stairs in my own house."
"You just need a little confidence."
"It's not possible. I can't fight, and don't want to."
"There are three motivations working in your favor," Rudy says, "and I'll tell you two of them now."
I'm staring vacantly. I don't believe in fighting. I'm terrified of confrontation. I can't stand the sight of blood. I once signed a petition to ban boxing! Last night, watching Tom punch Richie's face, I almost threw up. Jesus, it just hit me: Tom and Sally are dead.
Because their daughter's killer's mother wished it.
Rudy says, "Pay attention, Champ. Motivation number one is you'll have your third payback out of the way."
"You never told me what the second one was."
"I'll tell you tonight. The second motivation is even stronger. I can't wait to tell you."
"Just say it, okay? Say it and get out of here, before Lissie sees us."
"Okay, okay! Don't get your panties in a bunch. I was just trying to build suspense. The second motivation is, this is a fight to the finish."
"What?"
"Ain't it great? I mean, two pansies are gonna fight until one of them is pronounced dead."
"No! You can't! Please don't make me do this. Wait-you actually can't force me!"
"Excuse me?"
"You said so yourself."
"What're you talking about?"
"Yesterday you said you don't make people do things they don't want to do. You give them two, sometimes three choices, like with Jinny."
"I said that?"
"You did. Look, give me another choice. What's my alternative?"
He looks confused. "Well, if I said it, I guess I'm bound."
"Okay, then. So give me something else."
"I'll make a deal with you. When we pick you up tonight, I'll give you an alternative, if you still want one."
"I'll want one."
"We'll see. But in case you choose to fight, bring a pair of shorts and tennis shoes, unless you want to fight barefoot."
"Are you listening to me? I'm not gonna fight tonight!"
"I heard you, Champ. Jeez, I'm not deaf. I'm just saying, in case you change your mind, that's what you should bring to wear."
"I won't change my mind."
"See you at seven, Champ."
"Stop calling me that!"
Chapter 29
Lissie is still groggy from the sedative, but with each hour that passes, her condition improves. Perkins told me to put the whole capsule in her drink, but half that amount would have been more than enough.
I've got a good excuse for going out tonight. I tell her Perkins is coming to pick me up for a meeting with my new client.
"When am I going to meet this Thomas Jefferson?" she says. "Will he be in the car tonight?"
"No, Perkins is taking me to the airport to meet his private jet. I think I'm meeting the CEO, too. But we shouldn't be out too late."
"I'm not used to these late night meetings. Is this going to be a regular thing?"
"No. It's just getting acquainted stuff."
By four in the afternoon, Lissie has recovered enough to wonder why I'm acting so strangely. "I can't remember you ever being more attentive, and yet you're completely distracted. What gives?"
I'm attentive because if worse comes to worse I could get beat to death tonight, in which case I'll never see her again. I'm distracted for the same reason.
"I'm just worried about you," I say. "And nervous about my meeting tonight."
"You'll be great," she says.
Actually, distracted isn't the best word to describe how I'm feeling. What I am is scared shitless. It's clear to me that Rudy wants me to fight, so the choice he gives me will probably be something worse than killing someone (or being killed) in the boxing ring.
But what could be worse than that?
At seven o'clock Rudy and Perkins pick me up and take me to an abandoned warehouse a half mile behind the airport at Standiford Field. There are two huge luxury busses in the parking lot, and two bouncers guarding the front door.
"What's in there?" I ask Rudy.
"The cage."
"What cage?"
"The one you're fighting in."
The cold sensation floods my body again. I know I'm pale with fear. I try to speak, but my voice comes out in a whisper. I swallow and try again. "What about our deal?"
"We'll get you in the dressing room, get your hands wrapped, and then I'm going to show you a quick video of your opponent. After that, if you still don't want to fight, I'll give you an alternate choice."
"Okay."
Chapter 30
The dressing room is nothing more than a woman's bathroom with two stalls and an oversized powder room that includes two sinks, a large mirror, a fabric couch, and a small Formica table with two scuffed, wooden stools, one of which I'm sitting on. On the counter, next to a sink, is a small monitor. Standing over me, applying tape to my hands is Gus, a grizzled old guy with cauliflower ears and a hopelessly broken nose. Gus, I'm told, is my cut man.
While Gus wraps my hands, Rudy and one of the bouncers hook up a video camera to the TV monitor. They're watching something on the screen, but their broad backs are blocking my view. At one point the bouncer guy turns and looks at me and shakes his head, which I take as a bad sign.
"All right," Rudy says. "Now rewind it a bit. Okay, that's good. Hit the pause button. Okay, that'll work."
They both turn to face me, but they're still blocking the screen. When Gus says he's done with my hands, Rudy asks him to step outside for a few minutes. When he opens the door to leave I can hear people yelling and chanting.
"The natives are getting restless," Rudy says.
The door closes and Rudy tells the bouncer guy to cut the lights.
Before he starts rolling the tape, Rudy says, "You wanted me to tell you the second thing you've done to pay us back." He gestures to the monitor. "It's this."
The next three minutes are the worst of my life.
Afterward, when the guy flips the lights back on, the face I see in the mirror staring back at me is tear-streaked and filled with grief. I jump to my feet and run to the toilet and puke. I fall to my knees, sobbing, and puke again. I roll around on the floor, crying, moaning like a wounded animal. Minutes pass while my mind works to comprehend what I saw on the screen. When I finally get to my feet, there are two things I know beyond a shadow of a doubt: first, my life, as I knew it, is over. Second, I'm going to kill my opponent in the cage tonight, or die trying.