“That’s not bad for a phone call.”
Louie fell back into his chair. “No, I guess not. But if you lose, J.J., you won’t climb, especially coming out of the gate with a losing record.”
“I won’t lose.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
“Sure enough,” he answered. And then: “How many fights will it take to get to the top?”
“I’d say about fifteen, maybe twenty if you have a loss. It all depends upon how exciting of a fighter you are. If you’re good, you move. If not, then you’ll be trolling for trash as long as you work for this casino.”
“And the purses?”
“They grow as you do. Once you hit mainstream, once the TV’s focus on you as a supreme fighter, then you’re easily looking at five to six figures.”
Kimball couldn’t afford the television networks to reveal his true identity. Should a government constituent recognize him, then his life would be in jeopardy and he’d become the target of indigenous forces sent to silence him for the black ops he once performed for them and the dirty little secrets he held, including the sanctioned assassination of a United States senator.
No, he told himself. He would only bankroll enough money and leave Las Vegas before he made any type of impression with the network brass. Perhaps to Montana and buy a small spread to get started, and then grow from there. He would live a quiet life, alone, under a new name, a new identity, and pay taxes. He would wake up to the colorful streamers of light at dawn, then sit on the porch at dusk in a rocker watching the day’s light fade to an obsidian darkness where the night sky sparkled with countless pinprick lights as stars glowered against a most gorgeous canopy. A soft wind would blow through the trees, the leaves singing in concert. It was all quite simple, he thought. Ten fights, maybe twelve. Just enough to get him started.
And then he would once again try to escape from his true nature.
“I knew you’d come around,” said Louie. “You can’t run away from who you really are. I always told you that, didn’t I? I always said that you were a fighter, J.J. I could see it in your baby blues.”
Kimball nodded. You’re right, Louie. I really can’t escape from who I really am, can I? A fighter… A warrior… And don’t forget killer.
“Take the rest of the day off,” said Louie, standing, the cigar hanging precariously at the corner of his mouth. “Tomorrow, too. I’ll tell the bosses you went home sick. But I need you rested. This fight ain’t gonna be a cakewalk.”
Kimball left without a spoken word and kept to his ritual as much as he could. He went and bought his parfait glass of shrimp and walked beneath the overhang of the Freemont Experience. But it was still light and the overhead was not activated. So he walked to his apartment passing the homeless, the addicted, the forlorn and the wasted. He walked without a hitch in his step and his head held low.
The homeless begged him for money, their bony hands greased and caked with dirt held out for meager wages — a penny, a nickel, or perhaps the jackpot of a dollar bill. But Kimball ignored them the same way he ignored the lifeless looking nymphs who were ready to pleasure him for enough money to buy a bindle of meth.
Montana was looking better with every stride.
When he got home he went to the bathroom and gazed upon his features. He looked deep into his cerulean blue eyes, wondering what it was that Louie saw. Did they have a certain look about them? Something that gave insight to what he truly was? Were they the telltale signs of a killer in dormancy?
He raised the tips of his fingers and brushed them against the reflected images of his eyes — the blue eyes, so beautiful in their color, so deadly in their meaning.
Kimball then went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of vodka from the freezer, sat on the edge of the bed, popped the cap, and took a long swallow.
This is how he geared up for the fight, by first taking on his own demons.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Upon the passing of the pope, politicking was paramount in order to succeed to the throne. The two leads within the Preferiti were Cardinals Vessucci and Angullo. Cardinals Bass and Botelli were considered third and fourth respectively in the rankings, but still within striking range, even though both cardinals gravitated more toward the principles of a more liberal state.
To politick outside the walls of the Sistine Chapel prior to the conclave was acceptable. To politick for the papal station once the conclave was in session invited excommunication. By the time the door to the chapel was sealed minds should be made up, a successor chosen on the merits of what he could bring to the Church.
After a day of true debate among his constituency, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci had been diligently patient while listening to others. What had come to the fore is that Angullo’s camp had weakened considerably after the secretary of state often disputed the pontiff’s decisions and openly criticized the man for his judgment, which drew the ire of the pope and a growing distance between them.
In some eyes Angullo was seen as intolerable and uncompromising, causing many to withdraw from his camp, which in turn weakened his support. Others, however, stood firmly by him because they wanted to remain in the good graces of the man holding the second highest position within the Vatican.
And this was good news for Bonasero Vessucci, who was highly respected within the College of the Cardinals as someone who debated with skill and tolerance and had the pedigree of serving behind one of the most revered popes ever to reign by serving as secretary of state prior to his removal by Pope Gregory, and further viewed as a man of altruistic conviction.
While his following ran deep, Cardinal Angullo’s was running far and dry and fast, the unspoken polls rising in Vessucci’s favor.
As he stood before an open window of his dormitory at the Domus Sanctæ Marthæ overlooking the Basilica, he reflected over the possible changes to come. Without hesitation he would reinstate the Vatican Knights to protect the sovereignty of the Church, its interests, and its citizenry beyond the reach of the Swiss Guard. For those who could not protect themselves, the Vatican Knights surely would.
Standing idle watching the sun slowly set, the sky turning from a deep blue to reddish-orange, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci sighed. Even with the polls serving in his favor, he knew he had an obstacle to overcome as long as Cardinal Angullo remained steadfast. If nothing else, he thought, the man was ambitious to a fault.
And sometimes, ambition could warp a man’s sense of conscience.
With a preamble of a smile the cardinal continued to admire the sunset, the sun’s tendrils finally fading toward the darkness of night.
As Cardinal Vessucci stood at the window of his dormitory, so did Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo.
He stood there as a dry wind caressed his skin — the same dry wind that was blowing on the fatal night of the pope’s death.
As the sun settled, so unsettled was his nerves.
Although silver of tongue, his past association with Pope Gregory had proved to be a slow undoing of his grip over his camp. Those whom he considered to be his closest allies had quietly defected, his numbers growing weaker at a time that was becoming more opportune. In whispered circles he heard that some had defected and became a part of Vessucci’s growing numbers, propelling him to the top of the Preferiti, whereas others gravitated to other aspirants. Either way, Angullo was slipping.
Closing his eyes, he could feel his ambition torture him like something hot and writhing in his gut. The seat was but a conclave away, a position he glorified since he was ordained as a priest in Florence. And here he stood after becoming second in command of the Vatican through Machiavellian means.