"Come on, you Russian cracker, show me something," Lynd said, dribbling the ball outside the three-point line. "You can't touch this." With that Lynd drove and dunked the ball while Svetlov looked on helplessly.
Running back down the court, Lynd wagged his finger at Svetlov. "This my house, baby. Come on, Moby Dick, you big dumb white whale, come get you some of this."
The Russians turned the ball over and one of the Bloods fed the ball long to Lynd, who again slammed it home and then ran back down the court wagging his finger. However, the next time Lynd drove the lane, Svetlov fouled him hard, raising a red welt on his back. "Damn muthafuckin' cracker," Lynd said. He missed both of his free throws.
The same thing happened the next time. In fact, it seemed that Svetlov was purposely letting Lynd see an open lane to the hoop only to hack him as he went by.
"What the fuck, peckerwood. Keep that shit off the court," Lynd yelled, but the Russian just smiled and wagged his finger.
The third time Svetlov fouled him, Lynd was knocked to the ground. He got up and pushed Svetlov, which was about as successful as pushing against one of the prison's walls. Svetlov grinned but then spat on Lynd.
In a rage, Lynd swung at him and connected with Svetlov's nose. The Russian put his hand to his face and looked unconcerned at his bloody fingers. He took two steps toward Lynd, ignoring another hard right as he waded in, and shoved Lynd so hard the black man was launched into the spectators. The gym erupted into pandemonium. Both teams came off the bench, and the inmates who'd been watching poured onto the floor, where a dozen fights and scuffles ensued. In the meantime, the guards stood back to wait for the prison's riot team to show.
In the center of the action, Lynd and Svetlov squared off. A Bloods gang member handed a piece of razor-sharp sheet metal to Lynd, who slashed at the Russian, but Svetlov easily avoided the attacks as he crouched in a wrestler's stance.
All around the two men, the other fights began to subside as the combatants realized that something big was going down center stage. One of the guards yelled, "Lynd, put the weapon down."
But Lynd wasn't listening. Connecting with the two punches had given him the confidence that Svetlov wasn't fast enough to deal with him. He smelled blood and felt like slashing the giant's throat open in front of the homeboys.
Lynd lunged, trying to cut Svetlov across the stomach. But Svetlov deftly turned to the side, and the blade missed eviscerating him by half an inch. His left hand slid along Lynd's knife hand until it reached the heel, where he gripped as tight as he could and then turned the hand back, reinforcing the move with his own right hand. There was a popping noise as the jujitsu technique called katate tori ichi snapped Lynd's wrist like a dry stick.
Lynd screamed and the knife went flying. Svetlov wheeled around behind his opponent and quickly put him in a figure-four headlock with Lynd's throat in the crook of his right arm and his left arm behind the black man's neck. He then squeezed his massive biceps and applied pressure to the side and back of Lynd's neck.
Lynd struggled, trying to break the grip with his remaining hand. He was losing consciousness from the pressure on his carotid artery. He looked beseechingly at his fellow gang members, but they had turned their backs and were walking toward the bleachers. He caught the eye of the man who'd handed him the shiv; the man shook his head and then he too turned away.
Muthafucka. It was a setup, he thought, a moment before he went limp. When his muscles relaxed, there was another cracking sound, more subtle than the wrist yet at the same time more final. Lynd's head flopped to the side, his eyes wide and staring but no longer capable of sight.
As the riot team came rushing up, Svetlov let go of his victim and the body crumpled to the floor. He placed his hands behind his back to allow the guards to cuff him.
"Vas self-defense," Svetlov protested. He spat again on Lynd and laughed. "He vas a bad sport, da?"
16
"Stop it! The waitress is coming," Murrow whispered, pushing Stupenagel's hand away from where it was groping at him beneath the table in a dark corner of Mr. Brown's Pub at the Sagamore Hotel.
"She's not the only one, lover," said Stupenagel, who for the moment stopped her assault but left her hand within striking distance.
Stupenagel had suggested a romantic weekend at the grand old hotel set on Lake George in the eastern Adirondacks. When he protested that he couldn't possibly get away, she mentioned certain physically challenging sexual positions that she'd been fantasizing about and he'd quickly wilted under the pressure.
Ariadne was a woman of her word. They'd no sooner checked in, tipped the bellhop, and closed the door than she proceeded to make good on her promises. Sometime after the fourth or fifth round-he'd lost count and was feeling somewhat like a dazed boxer just before the knockout punch-she suggested they disengage and go grab a drink and dinner. "And give my tiger a chance to recover his claws," she purred.
"Mmmph," Murrow said into the pillow before turning his head to the side so he could be understood. "Couldn't we just order room service. I don't think I can stand up… Ow!"
Ariadne had slapped him hard on the butt. "Nonsense. That last effort was nice but hardly up to your peak performances. We need to get the blood flowing, and there's nothing like a Last of the Mohicans Martini to bring the color back to your cheeks and get you primed for the main event."
"Main event?" he asked, half in terror and half out of curiosity. "I thought we just did the main event."
"Oh, my, no, that was just to limber up," she said. "Next we're going to…" She leaned over and whispered in his ear.
"Really?" he said, his face a picture of concern. "Are you sure that's possible?"
"Absolutely," Stupenagel purred, "I saw a picture of it in the Illustrated Guide to the Kama Sutra, volume 10, with foreword by the Maharishi Bhagwan Yodi."
"Bhagwan Yodi? You're pulling my leg."
"If this is your leg, I hope you have another one just like it. Anyway, his real name is Mark Cook and he used to jockey a cab in Boston until he had this transformation and decided to go to India to become a holy man."
"They have schools for that?"
"Apparently, and he knows what he's talking about with the Kama Sutra. Legend has it he's deflowered more than three hundred vestal virgins-I guess they don't count nonvirgins-and set them on the path of enlightenment."
"Sounds like a sexual predator to me."
"Probably, but you're missing the point."
"No, I'm getting the point. I'm just trying to catch my breath."
"Exactly, my little big man. Which is why you're going to get that cute little tush up and escort me down to Mr. Brown's Pub, or I'll go on my own and maybe be abducted by a gang of bikers."
"Those poor bikers, if they only knew that they'll be spent and worthless men before you get done with them," Murrow teased. "Ow!"
She'd slapped his butt again. "Just my luck there aren't any gangs of outlaw bikers at the Sagamore. A bit highbrow for their tastes. But if you don't come along, I'll find someone who's willing to explore the Kama Sutra volumes 1 through 100 with me."
"All right, all right," he said. "Man, the things I do for science."
Stupenagel kissed him on the back. "Art, dear boy, it's an art, and you are my Picasso."
Ten minutes later they left their room, which had been tastefully decorated in Georgian Colonial, and headed for the lobby. As they passed, other people turned to stare and sometimes giggle at the odd couple. To start with, Ariadne was a good six inches taller, and she added to the difference with her affection for stiletto heels, the higher the better. She also dressed as if she'd bought her wardrobe off an avant-garde runway in Paris, preferring bright, splashy colors regardless of the season or time of day and had a lipstick to match every variance of color.