Джеффри Дивер: The Best American Mystery Stories 2017

“He’s been out of the game. Drug problems.”

“Is that what the promoter told you? Juba’s been serving a three-year drug sentence in Joliet, fighting for the prison team. He’s been training hard every damn day, desperate for a comeback. Dropping an Irish Maguire will get him ink and face time on TV. Especially if he’s standing over your dead body.”

I didn’t say anything. This day kept getting better and better.

Barlow was watching me, reading my reaction. Our eyes met and held. She had a strong gaze. Honest. And attractive. I couldn’t help smiling and shaking my head. At her. At the whole damned crazy business.

“You didn’t know about Juba’s prison time, did you?” she said. “You were expecting a tune-up fight?”

“It won’t matter when the bell goes off. Maybe Juba will be in top shape. Maybe he’ll be rusty from fighting second-raters.”

“Second-raters?”

“If they’re in prison, how smart can they be? Either way, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tip him off about... what you think you saw.”

“I know what I saw, Mick. And if there’s a weak point in your defense, Juba will pick up on it.”

“Maybe. If he has enough time.”

“A puncher’s chance? That’s what you’re counting on? You’re hoping to clock him before he can spot the problem?”

“A puncher’s always got a chance, lady. If you stand in there and keep throwing leather, one punch can change the fight, change your luck. Change everything.”

“My dad used to say that. A lot,” she scoffed.

“He was a boxer?”

“A club fighter. Loved the game more than it loved him. He’s in a hospice now, Mr. Maguire. Dementia. From taking your puncher’s chance one time too many.”

“I’m sorry it went that way.”

“It always does. It’s a savage, bloody sport.”

“If you hate it, why write about it?”

“I’m my father’s daughter, I suppose. And there’s an endless fascination to the fight game. With all the corruption, the mismatches, the wheeling and dealing, in the end it comes down to two guys in the ring. Facing off, one-on-one, with the crowd screaming for blood. The last gladiators.”

“But they always have the same chance,” I said. “It’s tough about your dad, but don’t fault a guy for loving the game. And as long as he kept on swinging, he did have a puncher’s chance. The next punch can change your whole life.”

“Wow, you actually believe that, don’t you?”

“Belief’s got nothing to do with it, lady. It’s the flat-ass truth. Hell, you just saw it happen.”

I was back in the gym at first light the next day. Desperate. The flaw Jilly revealed would definitely finish my career, unless I could find a fix for it.

Preferably before I faced Juba in the ring.

I spent hours in front of a full-length mirror, shadowboxing, turning this way and that, studying my form, looking for a solution to my problem.

Not finding one.

Pops came in early too. He circled me slowly as I worked out, watching for the better part of an hour. Neither of us saying a thing. But finally he shook his head.

“There’s no way to compensate, Mick. You can’t drop your elbow low enough. Beyond that point, you start to hunch down—”

“Which leaves me open for an overhand right,” I agreed, “which will drop me even faster than the liver shot. I might as well close my eyes and hope Juba knocks himself out.”

“I’m pulling you, canceling the fight.”

“The hell you are! We need the damn money, Pops, even if it’s only the loser’s share. And it’s not a done deal. We know the problem, but Juba doesn’t. If I can get to him before he spots it, I’ve still got a chance.”

“A puncher’s chance?” Pops snorted. “Guys who count on that get carried out.”

“It’s the only shot we’ve got, Pops. Now quit bugging me, I need to work on this.”

He disappeared into his office, taking my last hope with him. My Pops was an Olympic coach, a brilliant ring general. If there was a solution to my problem, he would have seen it. Since he didn’t...?

I was on my own. With a puncher’s chance.

Assuming Bobbie Barlow didn’t take that small hope away. If she mentioned my problem in her daily blog—

But she didn’t. Her column was totally focused on Jilly, the rising star of the Irish Maguires. She only mentioned my name to plug my bout with Juba. Didn’t mention the sparring match at all.

Which must have been a tough call. It would have been a big scoop to pinpoint the exact moment Irish Mick Maguire’s career ended. And Jilly’s began.

Or so I thought.

The first bout of the Friday Night Fights opened with a bang. Jilly had drawn a UFC cage fighter who was making her big debut in the boxing ring. The cage fighter had a fierce rep, years of fighting experience, a cauliflower ear, and fists the size of country hams.

It didn’t save her.

Jilly exploded out of her corner like she’d been shot from a cannon, taking her rage and frustration out on her opponent, firing off punches in bunches, accurate as sniper fire. The cage fighter covered up, trying to weather the storm. But the barrage just kept coming, numbing her arms, until she could barely defend herself.

Hurricane Carter in his heyday would have had his hands full against Jilly that night.

She had the UFC fighter so clearly outclassed that midway through the second round, after a murderous flurry, Jilly actually dropped her hands and stepped back, glaring daggers at the ref.

“Are you going to stop this slaughter or what?”

The cage fighter used the break to take a wild swing at Jilly’s head, a huge mistake. Jilly answered with a salvo of savage body shots, jamming her opponent into a corner, beating her senseless. The referee finally leapt between them, waving Jilly off, earning a chorus of boos from the crowd.

They were hoping to see a clean knockout, a rare event with female fighters. And they would have gotten one. A few more punches would have sent the cage fighter to dreamland. Or the ER.

Jilly was so deep in the zone she popped the ref three times before she realized he’d stopped the bout. He was an old-time heavyweight, Bozo Grimes. He’d once gone the distance with Foreman, but he winced at the power of Jilly’s punches. I felt sorry for him.

But not for long. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

Bobbie the reporter was right. My tomato-can opponent was anything but. Joliet Prison is one of the toughest gladiator schools in the country. Kid Juba had been training all day, every damn day, fighting for his cherry.

Following Jilly’s example, he came charging across the ring at the bell like Dempsey jumping Willard, firing off blows in a blur, so fast it took every bit of ring craft I owned to fend him off. A few struck home, getting my attention. But the others came on in a steady drumbeat, jab, jab, hook, cross. Jab, jab...

In a set pattern. Predictable.

Juba wasn’t a smart fighter, more like a schoolyard bully who’d picked up some skills. He was throwing too many punches too soon, desperate for an early knockout. It took me less than a minute to pick up on his rhythm. After that we were trading leather for leather in the middle of the ring. The crowd cheered the action, but it was all flash and dazzle, no serious harm done. We were fencing, probing for weaknesses. Seeing what worked, what didn’t.

Juba was short on technique but he had power. I got that message when I slipped a right cross. The punch flashed by like lightning, missing my jaw by an eyelash.

And it definitely widened my eyes.

The sheer force of it sent me a message. Big-time. This stud was dangerous.

Put-your-young-Irish-ass-in-traction-type dangerous.