Джеффри Дивер - The Best American Mystery Stories 2017

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.”

Pops hurried back through the crowd to the ring. Standing in that doorway, watching him go, was harder than any fight I’ve ever been in. All we had going was Smokin’ Joe’s advice.

The action had started, it wasn’t going the way we planned, and our only hope was to trust Jilly. She was the one in the ring under the lights. It was her call to make.

And I had no idea what it would be.

But subtlety ain’t Jilly’s style. She didn’t keep me waitin’.

She was dancing in place, glaring up at the Russian all the way through the ring announcements. Ready for Freddie. Her opponent was big and battle-scarred from the cages, looked like she ate lions for lunch. Experienced and sure of herself, she glared back at Jilly with open contempt.

An expression she didn’t wear for long.

At the bell, Jilly came rocketing across the ring like a cruise missile, trapping the Russian coming out of her corner. Facing a much shorter fighter, Olga thought she could fend Jilly off, keep her at bay, out of reach.

It was like trying to hold back a hurricane with a parasol. Jilly’s punches just kept raining in furiously from all directions, nonstop. And I felt my heart drop.

Jilly was going all-in in the first minute, gambling everything on this round. It was an impossible pace to maintain. If her strategy failed, Jilly’d be totally burned out by the second — but it didn’t fail.