Джеффри Дивер: The Best American Mystery Stories 2017

“Keep your guard up, Mick,” Pops chortled. “Your sister’s gettin’ miffed.”

“Good! Hey, Jilly! I won’t be fighting a girl come Friday night,” I yelled across the ring. “This Kid Juba will be lookin’ to drop a Maguire, make a name for himself. Crank it up, goddamn it! Show me something!”

And she did. She showed me I was finished.

At the bell, Jilly came out of her corner like Smokin’ Joe Frazier, punching like a machine, a steady drumbeat of serious blows, every one dead-eye accurate.

Which was exactly what I needed. It woke me up. On full defensive alert now, I was picking off her punches with my gloves and forearms, fighting on autopilot, more interested in her skills than my own.

I threw a right-hand lead to slow her roll; she countered it with a stiff left hook to the base of my rib cage. I dropped my elbow to block the punch...

But I missed it.

Her hook grazed my arm, then struck home, digging under my ribs. It wasn’t full strength, but it definitely stung. And I winced. And read the shock in her eyes.

As we both realized I’d just missed a basic block.

Because I couldn’t make it.

My surgically repaired shoulder had a glitch. My range of motion had been reduced by an inch. One critical inch. The healing was done, and so was I.

I couldn’t drop my elbow far enough to defend my gut. It was a fatal flaw. One that any schooled fighter would spot in a round or two. And when he did, he’d start firing body shots that would snap me in half.

The same way my little sister had nearly dropped me by sheer accident.

“Time!” Pops called, though we were only forty seconds into the round. “Time, goddamn it!”

Jilly followed me to my corner.

“What the hell was that?” they demanded together.

“I missed a block,” I growled, though I was as shaken as they were. “No big deal.”

“It looked big to me,” Pops growled. “Lower your elbow.”

I did.

“All the way down!”

“That is all the way,” I said, swallowing bile. “That’s as far as it freakin’ goes.”

“Ah, sweet Jaysus,” he said, turning away. Pops looked like he wanted to throw up, and Jilly was nearly as green.

I knew exactly how they felt. Because we all knew what it meant.

As long as I could throw leather I’d have a puncher’s chance. The hope of landing one big punch that’ll turn a fight around. Or end it.

But the permanent gap in my guard meant I’d never have the prime-time career I’d trained and sweated for all my life. In a single round, with a single punch, I’d gone from being a contender to a burnout.

I could still earn for a while. Guys could pad their records by beating hell out of me, and even losers’ purses add up. But every bout would send me further down the road to Palookaville.

Stick a fork in me. I was done.

I dropped down on the stool in my corner, staring down at my shoelaces, seeing the wreckage of my life swirling in the spit bucket. Don’t know how long I sat there. Eventually I came out of the fog. Realized Jilly had hit the showers. Probably to hide her tears.

But Pops hadn’t gone. He was parked on a wooden bench against the gym wall, looking even worse than I felt. Which was saying something.

I climbed through the ropes and eased down beside him.

“C’mon, Pops, it ain’t the end of the world. Liam’s almost of age, and his punch is bigger than mine—”

“Liam will never train here,” Pops said flatly. “We’re going to lose the gym, Mick.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your last fight,” he said. “Against Clubber Daniels? He was made for you, Mick. Looked scary as hell, had all them iron-pumper muscles. He’d won eight straight, but most of ’em were tomato cans. Watchin’ the film on him, he was just a brawler, with no real skills. I figured he’d punch himself out in the first couple rounds. By the third, you’d own his ass. Put him away in the fifth or sixth.”

“But I tore my shoulder in the third,” I said, shaking my head at the memory.

“And then tried to fight him one-handed.” He nodded grimly. “Got decked twice before the ref stopped it.”

“That was stupid, Pops, I know, but—”

“No. That was Irish heart, Mick. Not smart, maybe, but amazin’ brave. The stupid part is, I bet on you. Bet heavy.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Mick. I bet the freakin’ farm.”

“But... managers can’t bet. It’s illegal—”

“The gym’s been bleeding red for months, son. We needed a payday to tide us over. I knew you’d be earning big soon, and with Jilly coming up, and Liam only a few years behind, we’d be back in clover in no time. But instead of a fat payday...” He shook his head.

“That’s why they call it gambling, Pops,” I said. “How much are we down?”

“Almost ten.”

“Thousand? Sweet Jesus, Pops!”

“I got greedy,” he admitted. “It was my first time crossin’ over to the dark side, and since I knew it was a sure thing—”

“You went big.” I groaned. “Where’d you get the money?”

“I borrowed half from the bank against the gym. The rest I spread around on IOUs. Still owe most of that. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“Seriously? It gets worse?”

“I doubled down, Mick.”

“You... doubled?”

“I bet big on you again, for Friday against Kid Juba. After losing your last fight, then the long layoff? You’re the underdog, Mick, with odds against you three and four to one. We ain’t had a payday since you got hurt, and I knew you could take him—”

“Only I can’t, Pops. Christ, I probably can’t take Jilly.”

He didn’t argue the point. We both knew I was right. He walked away, silver-haired, pudgy, looking every damn minute of his fifty-plus. I stayed on the bench. Where I belonged. I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Mr. Maguire?”

A woman was standing in front of me. Hadn’t seen her come in. Tall, slim. Black slacks, black turtleneck. Boots. Raven-black hair cropped short as a boy’s.

“I’m Bobbie Barlow,” she said, tapping my glove with her small fist. “ Ring Scene Fanzine  ? Our interview was set for eleven, but I came early. And I’m glad I did.”

Sweet Jesus!

“How long have you been here?” I managed.

“Long enough to catch the drama. What was all that about?”

“Just a sparring session, lady. Boxing practice.”

“I know what sparring is, Mr. Maguire. I also know what a liver shot is. And it looked like your little sister hooked you with one.”

“I wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s because she didn’t have much on it. But it’s a deadly punch. Joe Louis won half his fights with it.”

I stared at her.

“Joe Louis Barrow?” she prompted. “The Brown Bomber? His fist is on display over at Hart Plaza. Twenty-four feet long, eight thousand pounds, cast in bronze? Maybe you’ve seen it.”

I still didn’t say anything. Still trying to shake off the darkness of Jilly’s punch. And the end of my world.

She eyed me a moment, then shrugged. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Maguire. We probably won’t talk again, since you won’t like my story. Irish Mick Maguire almost clocked by his little sister. Would you care to comment?”

I couldn’t think of one. She turned to walk away.

“Wait,” I said. “If you write that, you’ll get me killed.”

She faced me. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you write that my sister caught me with a liver shot and Juba’s people see it? You might as well tattoo a target on me, lady. He’ll break me in half.”

“He’ll probably kill you whether I write it or not. He’s a seasoned fighter, Mick. He’ll pick up on it.”