“Fifty thousand. Which is a huge problem. For us.”
We were in the gym office, Pops behind his desk, watching something on his computer, me in a chair facing him. The walls around us were lined with dozens of photos and trophies, the bloody plunder won over three generations of war in the ring. Barely worth a few hundred bucks to a collector.
Worth everything to a Maguire.
“Which part is the problem?” Pops asked, still frowning at his computer screen, his face blue in the reflected light.
“The fifty Gs,” I said. “Duke can’t lay a bet anywhere near that against Jilly. A wager that big on a girl fighter would raise too many red flags.”
“You’re right.” Pops nodded without looking up. “Even if he spreads it around, winning more than ten, fifteen grand on an upset would draw the gaming commission like crows to roadkill. But the fifteen might be enough to keep Fat Jack Cassidy from capping him while he waited for the real payoff.”
“What payoff?”
“Take a look at this,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”
“What is it?”
“Fight film, from Mexico. Toro Esteban versus Momo Benitez. It wasn’t easy to come by. There are laws against snuff films.”
“Benitez is the fighter Toro killed?”
“Take a look,” Pops repeated. “What do you see?”
There was no sound, and the film was grainy, an overhead-view shot from a cheap-ass videocam suspended above the ring.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Toro came out of his corner cautiously, feeling out Benitez. His opponent looked sloppy to me. I spotted a half-dozen openings that Toro missed.
They wasted the first round feeling each other out, but halfway through the second, Toro suddenly picked it up, firing off a dozen hard body shots that clearly hurt Benitez...
“Watch this,” Pops said, leaning in.
In his corner, between rounds, Benitez and his manager were arguing. But in Spanish and without sound? I had no idea what the beef was.
Third round, Toro jacked up the action again, a full-body attack. Benitez had no counter for it; he kept taking the punches, clearly hurt, until Toro caught him with a low blow, then laid him out with a hammer strike to the temple. Benitez hit the deck, didn’t move. The screen went dark.
I stared at the blankness.
Staring at death, I suppose.
“What did you see?” Pops pressed, his eyes intense.
I considered that a moment.
“The body attack,” I said. “Benitez wasn’t expecting it. Is that what he was arguing with his manager about?”
“I think so. The question is, why didn’t he expect it? Toro’s a body-puncher, they must have known that. So why were they surprised?”
It took a moment for the answer to register. And when it did, I went utterly still. Realizing what I’d just seen.
“It wasn’t a fight,” I said slowly. “It was murder.”
“Benitez was set up,” Pops agreed. “I think he was fixed to fall in the fourth. So when Toro came at him full on in the second, it caught him by surprise. He wasn’t ready to fight, or defend himself properly. He thought he was going to dance a few rounds, then drop.”
“Instead, Toro used him for a punching bag, knowing he wouldn’t fight back,” I finished. “The poor bastard had no chance at all.”
“Still, they couldn’t have known they’d kill him,” Pops mused.
“Probably not. They double-crossed him, figuring to end his career, put him in traction. His death was a bonus.”
“Toro’s whole reputation, the ‘Terminator’ business, began with that fight,” Pops said. “Before Benitez, Toro was just another pug. And even the killing didn’t make him a headliner, because Benitez was a nobody, and it happened in Mexico.”
“But if he kills a second fighter? Say an Irish Maguire, in Detroit? Dukarski will be minting money off this guy.”
“Jilly diving is only a smokescreen,” Pops agreed. “To get you into the ring with your guard down. So Toro can make his name by stomping you into dog meat.”
“Or killing me. If he can.”
“We’ve got to go to the law, Mick.”
“To say what? Toro killed Benitez? Hell, everybody knows that. He’s proud of it. And if we admit we’re mixed up in a fix with Dukarski, we’ll be flat broke, barred from boxing forever, while he waltzes away without a scratch. The law can’t help us here, Pops. We have to settle this on our own.”
“How?”
“We do what we’ve always done. We’re Irish Maguires. We come up with a plan, then step in the ring and swing away.”
There’s a famous quote from former heavyweight champ Joe Frazier. My Pops has it painted on a banner that hangs over our training ring:
“You can map out a fight plan or a life plan, but when the action starts, it may not go the way you planned... That’s where your roadwork shows. If you cheated on that in the dark of the morning, well, you’re going to get found out now. Under the bright lights.”
We took Smokin’ Joe’s advice, kept our fight plan as simple as possible. First we brought Jilly up to speed on the fix. Pops told her she was supposed to lose, and why.
“Duke needs to make two things happen,” Pops explained. “He bets heavy that you lose and makes enough to hold off the loan sharks. Then Toro beats Mick real bad, maybe to death? And Duke gets himself a big earner for the long run.”
“That’s his plan.” Jilly nodded grimly. “What’s ours, Pops?”
“The exact opposite,” Pops said flatly. “You win your bout and bankrupt that son of a bitch. Then Mick calls in the ring doctor, admits his shoulder’s injured, and cancels out. And Toro stays a nobody who can’t make Duke a nickel.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Jilly nodded, frowning, mulling it over.
“And?” Pops asked.
She glanced up with the feral flare of combat in her eyes. “I like my part of it just fine.” She grinned. “Who do I have to beat?”
“A Russian called Olga the Borg,” Pops said warily. “A cage fighter out of Duke’s stable. She’s tough and tall, a lot taller than you, with a longer reach. And she’ll definitely be in it to win it. Duke won’t tell her nothing about the fix.”
“What fix is that?” Jilly asked, all innocence.
“Exactly right.” Pops nodded. “Ain’t no fix, girl, not anymore. Just make damn sure you win!”
That was our fight plan. And we trained hard for it, Jilly to win, me to look like I was serious about a fight Pops would cancel at the last minute.
It was a good plan. Until the night of the fight. When it all went south.
I was alone in my dressing room, sitting on the massage table. Jilly’s fight was being announced and I was waiting for the ring doctor so I could cancel mine.
The door burst open and Pops charged in, his eyes wild.
“What the hell?” I demanded, jumping to my feet. “Why aren’t you in the ring with Jilly?”
“Dukarski,” he said. “He sent a limo for Liam and Sean. They’re sitting at ringside between him and Gamez. Gamez is strapped and Duke is too.”
“Jesus! Did he threaten them?”
“He don’t have to! The message is plain. The boys don’t know nothing. Hell, they’re happy as clams to have front-row seats.”
“What about Jilly?”
“She ain’t said nothing either, but she can see what Duke expects her to do. Them boys are there as insurance to keep her in line.”
“Then it’s gotta be on Jilly,” I said flatly. “She’s the one in the bright lights tonight, Pops. Whatever she decides, we back her up. Now get back out there, look after her.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Wait, for now. If I go after them like this, they’ll see me coming a mile away. Get out there and follow Jilly’s lead, whatever it is.”