Джеффри Дивер - The Best American Mystery Stories 2017

“Pops—”

“Mick will fall in the fourth, Mr. Dukarski,” Pops said, turning back to Tony Duke. “But he don’t get hurt. Nobody bleeds, you understand me? Or I’ll feed you that damn gun myself!”

“Relax, Pops, no need for drama.” Dukarski grinned, offering his hand. “We all understand the stakes. Don’t we, Mick?”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Then the man I’ve worshipped my entire life reached out and shook the gangster’s hand.

Done deal.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Pops said. We were in the dressing room collecting my gear.

“How should I look? You sold us out, Pops.”

“I saved the family,” he countered. “Pull on your big-boy pants, Mick. Grow up.”

“To be like you? That’s what I always wanted.”

“I wanted to be heavyweight champ.” He sighed, slapping his belly. “All I ever made was the weight. Maybe Liam will be a champion one day, but first we gotta get ourselves out of this jam.”

“I thought we just did. By selling Jilly out.”

“Get over your snit and start thinkin’, boy. The only true thing Dukarski said back there was about us circlin’ the drain. The rest was a crock. Something’s wrong about the deal.”

“Hell, every damn thing’s wrong with it, Pops! Dukarski’s a hood—”

“Gee, a thug in the fight game? Do tell. He ain’t the first we’ve met. They’re like lice on the biz, and always have been.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. He was right.

“So what are you saying? What’s wrong with the deal?”

“You tell me, dammit! Think, boy. I know we’re missing something, I just don’t know what!”

I mulled that for a moment.

“For openers, it won’t be one and done. We do this once, Dukarski will freakin’ own us.”

“He can’t burn us without burning himself,” Pops pointed out.

“Sure he can. If we get busted for illegal gambling, Dukarski will pay a fine, maybe spend time on the county, and be right back in business. But the Maguires will be done, Pops, barred from the sport forever. It’d be the end of us. You’ll be the Pete Rose of boxing.”

“Maybe I should be, if I’ve brought us to this.”

“Maybe we both should,” I conceded. “But we can’t let our mistakes wreck Liam’s future, or Sean’s. And Jilly’s most of all. We gotta make this right, Pops.”

“We still ain’t seein’ it clear. One thing, though? When Toro talked about killin’ you, he was dead serious. He ain’t a fighter, Mick, he’s a murderin’ son of a bitch. You need to be ready when you fight him.”

“I’m not afraid of him, Pops—” I broke off, considering what I’d just said.

“What is it?”

“Dukarski was sweating,” I said. “Did you notice?”

“He seemed jumpy,” Pops acknowledged. “So?”

“So the man was strapped, so was Cheech, and the Terminator kills people with his fists.”

“I don’t—?”

“We were in a public place — he had a gun and two bodyguards. Why the hell would he be nervous? What was he afraid of?”

We both mulled that one over but came up empty.

Pops left to collect our purses, a winner’s share for Jilly, loser’s for me.

I was zipping up my gym bag when Bobbie Barlow rapped once and stepped in. Dressed casually in jeans and a Detroit Tigers baseball jacket, she still managed to look classy.

“Hey, Maguire. Tough luck tonight.”

“Puncher’s luck.” I shrugged. “Didn’t go my way tonight. I’m glad you came by, though. I wanted to thank you for not writing about that sparring business.”

“I wrote the important part. Jilly’s going to be a star.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m a sportswriter, Mick; obituaries are a different department. It would have been a false alarm anyway. You owned that mope until he tripped you.”

“It was my fault, actually. I stumbled over his foot. But anyway, I owe you one. Buy you dinner?”

“I never date my stories, Mick.”

“I’m not a story anymore, lady. I’m yesterday’s news.”

“Not to me. I came by right after the fight, but you were already gone. So I went looking for you and there you were, making nice with Tony Duke. And the Terminator.”

“We were doing a deal,” I said simply. “I signed to fight Toro in six weeks.”

“With your shoulder messed up? Are you out of your mind?”

“It’s what I do, Barlow.”

“But cutting a deal with a sleaze like Dukarski—”

“The family needs the money. Simple as that.”

“No, it’s not. Toro killed another fighter—”

“In Mexico. I know. But—”

“My point is, that’s all he’s done. Toro’s a nobody, Mick, and you’re coming to the end of your career. Even if you beat him, it won’t fatten your purses or build your image—” She broke off, staring at me.

“But it’ll build his image,” she went on. “When he beats you.”

“You mean if he beats me.”

“I don’t think so. When promoters cut a deal, both sides look for an edge, but in the end, no matter how they finagle it, it comes down to the fighters. Two guys squaring off in the ring. But it only takes one to fix a fight. Is that what I saw, Mick?”

I didn’t say anything to that. Which was an answer, of sorts.

“You owe me, Maguire. You just said so.”

“I don’t want to lie to you, Bobbie.”

“Well, that’s something, at least. Forget dinner, but I’ll toss you a bone for free. If Dukarski promised you a payoff? You won’t see it. He doesn’t have it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Duke bet the wrong way on the last Mayweather fight, and borrowed big to do it. He’s down fifty Gs to Fat Jack Cassidy, a loan shark out of Warsaw Heights. And people who can’t pay Fat Jack tend to disappear. One way or the other.”

“Where’d you hear this?”

“Sorry, Maguire, one freebie’s all you get,” she said, shaking her head. “And you still owe me a story.”

“I’d rather buy you dinner.”

“I’ll settle for the truth,” she said from the doorway. “If you ever remember what it is.”

“Duke’s in the hole to Fat Jack Cassidy?” Pops mused when I told him. “No wonder he’s worried. He damn well should be. He’s in deeper trouble than we are. How much did she say?”

“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?”