Juba danced the last rounds away, running for his freakin’ life but looking good doing it. Every time I tried to close with him, he got on his bicycle, firing flurries of flashy, pitty-pat punches with nothing on them, confident he had the fight in the bag.
Which he damn well did.
Bozo cautioned Juba twice about the running, but that didn’t mean squat to the fans. Juba was still showboating at the final bell. Five seconds to confer with the judges and the ref was raising Juba’s hand in victory while the ring announcer bellowed the unanimous decision. There was a smattering of applause, but the crowd was already thinning, headed for the johns and beer booths before the next bout.
“Lucky goddamn punch,” Pops said glumly, cutting the laces off my gloves in the dressing room. “You rocked him good in the second. What the heck happened?”
“I had him hurt, I went for the knockout. I was so paranoid about catching a liver shot—”
“This is all on me,” the old man said. “I should have pulled you.”
“You didn’t make me trip over his damn foot, Pops.”
“I know, but...” He swallowed. “We’ve got more trouble, Mick. Them IOUs I spread around? They’ve been bought up. All of ’em.”
“By who?”
“Tony Dukarski. Used to fight some himself — he’s a promoter now. Do you know him?”
“Tony Duke? He’s not just a promoter, Pops, he’s mobbed up. How much are we down to him? Exactly?”
“The better part of fifteen grand. It might as well be a million. I don’t have it.”
“The loser’s purse is a thousand, but — hold on. Fifteen grand? Dukarski’s in the business. He must know we don’t have that kind of money lying around. Why would he buy up your paper?”
“He’s backing a new fighter, a stud from L.A., Toro Esteban. Bad-lookin’ dude, prison-yard muscles, tattoos, dreadlocks. Big puncher. Killed a Mexican fighter down in Tijuana. They call him Toro the Terminator now.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“Toro’s wins are nobodies, Mexicans from Dago or Tijuana. Everybody’s fifty and one down there, no way to confirm their records. I hear Tony Duke’s lookin’ for some... local bouts.”
He looked away, unable to meet my eyes.
“My God,” I groaned. “You mean Dukarski’s lining up mopes his boy can knock down to pump up his win record? Mopes like me, for instance?”
“It don’t matter what he’s doin’,” Pops said. “Bein’ down fifteen to Tony Duke ain’t like owin’ the Bank of Detroit, Mick. We’re in deep shit here. We gotta talk to the man.”
We found Tony “Duke” Dukarski holding court at a third-tier table overlooking the main floor. A dozen people around him, all as drunk as he was, except for his bodyguard, Cheech Gamez, a hawk-faced Latin in a gray silk suit, narrow tie. Cheech was strapped, nickel-silver automatic in a shoulder holster winking from beneath his sport coat. Tony Duke was carrying too, a piece tucked in his waistband. Not really concealed; he clearly wanted folks to see it.
His new fighter wasn’t armed, but didn’t need to be. He was at the end of the table and Pops was right. Even in a slick new sharkskin suit and tie, Toro the Terminator looked bad to the bone, prison-yard muscles straining the seams of his tailored jacket.
Dukarski looked bad too, in the original sense of the word. Big and fleshy, with thinning blond hair, he was clearly on a downhill slide. His cheeks were splotchy from booze, seamed with smile lines from his fixed salesman’s grin. His brows were shiny with scar tissue from his time in the ring, but his fighting days were a while back. Looked like he was carousing himself into an early coronary now, laughing all the way.
“Mr. Dukarski? I got word you wanted to talk to us?”
“Irish Pops Maguire and his star fighter,” Tony Duke said, not bothering to offer his hand. “Hey, everybody, say hello to Irish Mick and his Pops.”
A couple of drunk chicks at the table glanced up. Cleaned up, in a clean white shirt and jeans, I’m saloon-society passable, if you ignore the scars around my eyes and a deep nick in my upper lip, souvenir of a head butt. The girls weren’t interested. They’d just seen me lose.
“Siddown, have a drink,” Tony Duke slurred. “You’ll probably want a shot to go with the one put you on your ass, Mick. Nurse!” he bellowed at a passing waitress, stuffing a ten down her bra. “Scotch all around.”
“I’ll have a beer,” I said, swallowing my anger. I sat opposite Dukarski with Pops beside me. Pops went with the Scotch. A double.
“Have you met the Terminator, Mick?”
Toro offered a sizable paw, but it wasn’t a contest of strength. He shook gently, Spanish style.
“Tough break, trippin’ like that, Irish,” he said. “Your last fight was bad luck too. Your shoulder was screwed in the third. Why didn’t your papa throw the towel?”
“I was ahead on points, tried to go the distance, squeeze out a win.”
“Gutsy, but stupid. I would have busted you up like a wrecking ball. Hit you so hard whole damn family would’ve spit blood for a month.”
I eyed him, but let it pass.
“Want some advice, Irish?” Toro said, leaning forward, his massive mahogany face only inches from mine. “You looked different in the ring tonight. Fought different too. Like you were scared. I think you were. You should back away from the game now, before your brains get scrambled or you get kilt. Maybe I kill you.”
“Maybe you’ll talk me to death,” I said.
“You got a smart mouth, white boy.” Toro grinned, not backing off an inch. “Gonna be some fun bustin’ you up.”
“Hey, hey, let’s not have any fightin’ at the fights,” Tony Duke interrupted, with a bleary grin at his own wit. “Your Pops tells me we got a problem, Maguire—”
“We owe you,” I said, turning to Dukarski. “We understand that. If you want me to fight this gorilla, I’ll do it for free. But I won’t dive, Mr. Dukarski, not for you or anybody else.”
“You ain’t callin’ the shots here, sonny.” Dukarski snorted. “And you ain’t the one I want to talk about anyway. It’s your sister.”
“Then there’s nothing to talk about,” I said, standing up, flushing with fury. “I’m the fighter, Mr. Dukarski—”
“Not from what I seen,” Toro said.
“If you want to try me, bring it!” I flared, whirling on him.
“Dammit, Irish, cool your jets!” Tony Duke snapped, waving me back to my seat. “You Maguires are into me for fifteen, which your old man lost bettin’ on you, Mick. Have you got my money?”
“Not tonight, but—”
“Then it’s a done deal.” Duke leaned back, confident now. “You’re in the toilet, swirlin’ around. I can flush the lot of you down, or we can all get well. A sweet deal, one time. One and done.”
I turned away a moment, fighting down the urge to punch Tony Duke’s lights out. But I knew what would happen to the family if I did.
Out on the arena floor, acres of boozy spectators were cheering or cursing two gladiators in the ring. Fight night, Motown style. Shirtsleeves and summer dresses, not a tuxedo in sight.
Half an hour ago I’d fought an ex-con to entertain these stiffs and got my head handed to me. And now we were deeper in the hole than before.
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Dukarski?” Pops asked.
“Your girl, Jilly? Hasn’t lost a bout since she turned pro. Your family name alone makes her a heavy favorite every fight now, and after seeing her tonight, she’ll be five or six to one to win her next bout. Crazy odds, and that’s the beauty of it. Nobody takes female fighters seriously, they’re strictly for glitz. So losing one bout won’t mean squat to your girl’s career. But at five to one, we could all make a pile. Enough dough to get you off the hook, Pops.”