Джеффри Дивер: The Best American Mystery Stories 2017

Fully focused now, I picked up my rhythm in the second round, taking Juba seriously now, taking him to school. Pugilism 101.

I went in low, hammering the ex-con’s rib cage with stiff body shots, sharp punches with serious snap to ’em, dealing out some pain. The barrage forced Juba to drop his guard a few inches, then quickly raise his hands as I finished every flurry with a hard right to the head.

The attacks didn’t do much damage. Juba was blocking most of my shots, probably thought he had me figured. Anticipating that final right, he started lifting his left a little sooner every time. A rookie mistake.

As the round wound down, I suddenly reversed the pattern, firing off a flurry of body shots, then dropped the last punch four inches lower, digging a hook under Juba’s elbow as he raised his guard. The punch drove home like a battering ram, halfway to his spine!

Juba gasped, then quickly backed away, grinning, shaking his head like the punch was nothing. Nothing at all.

But that punch was something.

I charged in, working the same combination again before he could figure it out, delivering a second body shot to the same spot, flatfooted this time, a sledgehammer blow with serious steam on it.

Juba couldn’t clown this one off. Wincing in pain, he backpedaled, dancing away as fast as he could. He stayed up on his toes the last fifteen seconds of the round, then walked stiff-legged back to his corner at the bell. His knees wobbled when he collapsed on his stool.

I nodded in satisfaction. Gotcha! Juba was definitely in the House of Hurt.

“You hooked him good there, Mick.” Pops grinned as I dropped onto my stool, breathing deep with my nostrils flared, sucking down all the air I could hold, inhaling the stink of the ring, the crowd. “How do you feel?”

“I’m good, Pops.” Then I tuned him out, focusing on the ex-con across the ring.

Tall and rangy for a middleweight, Juba had long arms, like Tommy Hearns. Had a honey of a scar on one cheek, gleaming through the Vaseline, giving him a fierce, predatory look.

But beneath the savage mask, I could feel his pain. Juba was keeping his teeth bared in a fierce grin to camouflage it, but his brow was furrowed and he couldn’t quite straighten up on his stool, even when his trainer tugged on his waistband to relax his abdominals.

I knew that agony. I’d drilled him with the same punch Jilly had caught me with earlier in the week. I’d stopped one like it once before, early in my career. The pain was so bad I thought the guy had ruptured my spleen. Somehow I answered the bell, stayed on my feet, but I could barely defend myself. My opponent toyed with me for a round, setting me up. Then dropped me flat in the sixth.

But I couldn’t wait for the sixth. Juba was tough, with real power, and his flashy punches were piling up points. I had to put him away now, before he could shake off his misery. And find the chink in my guard.

Normally Pops would be yelling instructions in my ear. Not on this night. No need. We both knew what had to be done.

“Seconds out!” the timekeeper called, slapping the ring apron with his palm for emphasis.

“You did some damage,” Pops said, rinsing off my mouthpiece, sliding it in as I rose. “He thought he was getting a tune-up fight. So tune his ass up!” Grabbing the stool, the old man hoisted himself through the ropes.

Across the ring, Juba was already dancing in place, angry, hurting, and hungry for payback. And if we started trading body shots?

He’d kill me.

It had to be now. I had to put him on the goddamn deck.

Slamming my gloves together, I sucked in extra air, ready for Freddie.

At the bell Juba came charging out of his corner, firing away like a machine gunner. Pumped up on pain and rage, he was desperately trying to smother my punches, keeping me too busy to land another body shot.

No problem. I let him flail away. I was headhunting now, picking off Juba’s blows, waiting for a puncher’s chance. One clean shot for a knockout. Waiting... waiting... Bobbing, ducking... Knowing it could come any second now—

Suddenly there it was! Juba threw a left hook so hard it carried him around when it missed, out of position, leaving his jaw wide open for a counter!

Perfect!

I threw a hard right, swiveling my hips into the punch, giving it everything I had — but Juba’s desperation-flailing roundhouse landed first, grazing my temple.

Totally focused, I barely felt Juba’s punch. But it had just enough zip on it to make me miss mine. Big-time.

The force of my blow spun me off balance, and as I straightened up, I stumbled over Juba’s left foot, dropping to one knee.

Jesus! What the hell just happened?

I jumped up immediately, more embarrassed than hurt. But the ref was already counting, giving me a standing eight.

“Hey!” I shouted around my mouthpiece. “No knockdown! I freakin’ tripped!”

Across the ring, Juba was dancing in his corner, arms raised in victory, showboating for the crowd. And the fans were eating it up. Screw the fine points of pugilism. Your freakin’ grandma can understand a knockdown. Goddamn it!

“You okay, Maguire?” The ref was peering into my eyes intently.

“Dammit, Bozo, I tripped!” I mumbled around my mouthpiece.

“Answer up, Maguire! Can you continue or not?”

“Hell yes!” I roared, desperate to get back into the fight. “Get out of the way!”

Grabbing my gloves, Bozo wiped them off on his white shirt, then stepped back and waved us on.

I charged into Juba’s corner, but he danced out of reach, grinning, hot-dogging around the ring for the last half minute of the round.

“You’re blowin’ it, Mick,” Pops yelled as I sagged on his stool. “Dammit, I told you—”

I leaned back, closing my eyes, tuning him out. Knowing he was right.

Crap! Decked by a dumb-ass lucky punch. Juba hadn’t laid a glove on me all night. And he wouldn’t have to, now. The knockdown would decide this bout. Pops was ranting at me, practically frothing at the mouth, more frantic than I’d ever seen him—

The ref was leaning over me, checking me out. “You good to go, Maguire?”

“Terrific,” I snapped.

“Glad to hear it,” he said dryly, then trotted back to the center of the ring to wait on the bell. I noticed he didn’t bother asking Juba if he was okay. This fight was over unless I could nail Juba and put him down—

But I couldn’t. The traditional glove touch before the final round was the closest I came to landing a punch.

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.”