“Lounge takes twenty percent of the book,” Oster says. “The whole city’s been laying down money faster than my beat bulls can pick it up. We’re going to use half the proceeds to build some bleachers back here and increase the attendance. You know the old boys down City Hall don’t want to be sitting on fruit crates at this stage of their careers.”
Gilrein stares at him and Oster says, “Next year I’ll save you a place in the owner’s box. How’s that sound, Gilly”—he pauses and lets his smile fade—“huh? You will be attending next year, Gilrein? That is what you’re here to tell me, right?”
Gilrein doesn’t answer. Down in the pit, Green puts his arm up in the air and swings a big circle as if tossing an invisible lasso.
“Hold that thought,” Oster says. “Looks like the festivities are about to begin.”
He pulls his piece from his shoulder rig and fires three rounds into the air, which effectively calls the crowd’s attention. He picks his bullhorn up from the bricks and brings it to his mouth.
“Gentlemen,” his voice amplified into a fuzzy and slightly mechanical echo, bouncing off the wall of the factory and running back out into the woods behind him. “On behalf of the Houdini Lounge social committee, I just want to welcome you all to the first annual Rome Avenue Tournament of Refugees. Now before we begin this evening’s feature match, I need to remind you that my boys are passing around a collection hat for the widows and orphans relief fund and I know that you’ll all give generously to this worthy cause that benefits the families of our brother officers.”
He lowers the bullhorn to chest level and looks out over the crowd, checking to make sure the audience is digging into their deepest pockets. Without looking at Gilrein, he says, “You’re going to love this, Gilly. This is going to be better than a gladiator movie.”
Gilrein tries to see if he’s kidding, but Oster just lifts the bullhorn and says, “Now I know a lot of you have been waiting weeks for tonight’s bout and the management genuinely regrets all the rescheduling we’ve put you through, but I think you’re going to find that it’s been worth the wait. So let’s introduce this evening’s fighters.”
Without waiting for the crowd’s latest drunken cheer to subside, Oster pulls an index card from a pocket and nods to Stewie Green, who holds up the manacled arm of his prisoner and starts to lead him in a display promenade around the periphery of the pit.
“Originally hailing from the Dominican Republic and in town just six short months is Rafael Rojo.”
A quick break for both cheers and taunts, then, “Weighing in tonight at a speedy one hundred and forty-three pounds, Rafael was Gunther Berlin’s collar …” A huge cheer obscures the next few words. “… picked up in February on various weapons-possession charges in addition to possession and intent to distribute a class A substance and assault on a police officer with shod foot.” A swell of boos as half a dozen beer cans are tossed into the pit.
Oster looks up from his notes and yells, “Excuse me, people, I’ll have to ask you to refrain from littering the fight area. Yes, I’m talking to you, Callan. Your debris could affect the outcome of tonight’s match.”
Someone yells a remark that Gilrein doesn’t catch. Oster nods to Danny Walden, who goes into the same circle-trot with his captive.
“And straight out of Karachi, Pakistan, in our fair city for only a fortnight and picked up by Metro Sergeant Horace “He was dead when I found him” Kemp during his rotation with the Office of Disease Control — that’s it, stand up, Kempster, boy”—a huge roar of cheers from the train-yard bulls—“tonight’s challenger is Subash Anandi. Awaiting deportation for forged inoculation papers, Subash weighs in this evening at one hundred and sixty-seven pounds of ragin’ Muslim muscle.”
Walden and Subash come back to center pit and Oster says, “Let’s have a big Houdini Lounge welcome for both of our young warriors,” and the crowd louds up obligingly one more time, then settles in as Walden and Green unlock all their chains and scramble up to their seats on opposite rims of the crater, where they’re each handed a twelve-gauge pump Winchester, this tournament’s version of the referee’s whistle.
“Gentlemen,” Oster yells, “whenever you’re ready.”
Someone lets an air horn blow for several seconds and as soon as it stops Subash leaps forward, going in under Rafael’s meatless ribs, driving the teenager to the ground. And then the two of them are rolling around the pit, covering themselves with mud and splintered glass and brick ash. Subash is jabbing at both of Rafael’s sides, solid little tags that hurt more than Rafael can believe. Rafael scrambles to get loose, kicks a foot into the Pakistani’s groin hard enough to break off the attack and instantly change the direction of the fight.
Rafael rolls to the side, gets up on a knee and before he can think, he clumsily pounces on top on Subash’s back, throwing a thin choke hold around the neck. The Pakistani sinks a skin-breaking bite into Rafael’s wrist. Rafael screams, releases his hold, and Subash grabs the bleeding arm with both hands and pulls Rafael over onto his back, then plants a knee on the teen’s chest and throws a combination at the kid’s face, landing a right below the eye and a left, more solid, full impact, into the jaw.
Gilrein is light-headed but he can’t take his eyes off what he knows is very soon going to turn into carnage. Oster chooses this moment to lean to Gilrein’s ear and say, “I know you thought I was out of line, bringing you back here, you know, where it all happened.”
Gilrein stares at Subash flailing away as if Rafael’s head was some speed bag stuffed with bone and meat.
“But I had to make you see, Gilly. I felt honor-bound, you’ve got to understand this. I needed to make you realize there could be life after Ceil.”
The name breaks up the vision and Gilrein turns to look at Oster as Oster drapes an arm over Gilrein’s shoulder and squints and smiles and bobs his head a little and says, “This is what Ceil would want. You know that. Deep down, you know it. Ceil would not want her husband driving around Bangkok at night without a badge and a piece.”
“I’ve still got the piece,” Gilrein says, confused, but Oster ignores him and continues.
“Ceil would not want Gilrein to spend the rest of his life as some low-rent taxi-boy. Counting out change. Collecting rags. Mopping up the backseat for every scum rat that can whistle. Ceil would be crushed.”
“You knew Ceil pretty well, huh, Bobby?”
Rafael can feel skin rip inside his mouth and a jet of warm liquid start to roll over his tongue and gums. He spits a wad of blood and pulp onto his own torso, is pumped up by the sight and instinctively yanks a fistful of Subash’s hair and throws the opponent off his chest.
Rafael takes in some air and touches his jaw and gets belted with both a jolt of pain and a burst of adrenaline that has him on his feet and grabbing blindly for Subash, void of thought, absent of ideas about cause and effect, simply wanting to get hold of the bastard who tore up his mouth and go him one better, do some lasting damage, break the man up and stomp on the parts. The kid has never felt this kind of rage. He’s crazy with it. He swings a bent elbow, off-balance but with enough force to catch Subash in the throat. Subash starts to bend forward, and Rafael surprises himself by finessing a respectable punch, driving in a fist just above the belt line.
“I’m just saying, Ceil would want you back with family, Gil. Ceil would want you here with us. Ceil would say, ‘Go for it.’ Ceil would tell you, ‘Listen to Bobby Oster.’ She was a fine cop. I don’t have to tell you that. She was one of the best. Things turned out different, she would have moved past the old priest. I’m telling you, Ceil would want you to be one of us.”