James Swain - Gift sense

"My boy's up next," Nick announced.

"Is he any good?"

Nick's eyes twinkled. "Yeah, and nobody knows it."

The wind shifted and the rumble of traffic from the nearby highway infused the air with a sense of impending combat. Colored spotlights perched above the ring came on, bathing the canvas in soft hues. The arena was filling quickly, and in the front rows sat several male movie stars and their stunning dates. This was the "exposure section," and Nick explained that the studios paid obscene sums to put their stars in these seats.

Nick's ringer performed as expected and pounded his opponent like a hammer pounding a nail, winning in two rounds. Standing, Nick said, "I'd better go collect my dough. Want anything?"

"No thanks."

"Be back in a few."

Nick strode down the aisle. The next bout was about to start and the referee motioned two snarling females to the center of the ring. Then the bell sounded and they started brawling like alley cats. It was ugly, and the crowd quickly made its displeasure known. Luckily, it ended quickly, a physician climbing into the ring to tend to a young skinny black woman sitting on a stool. Nick returned with his cash.

"If you or I did that," he remarked, "we'd do time."

"No kidding."

"Look," Nick said, elbowing him in the ribs.

Valentine stared across the ring at a well-known movie actor getting his picture taken with a star-struck fan.

"I hate that prick," Nick swore.

It took a moment for Valentine to realize that Nick was referring not to the actor but to Nola Briggs's defense attorney, who rose from a nearby seat. He was small in stature and looked even smaller in the company of the larger-than-life characters that stood yukking it up around the ring apron. Cupping his hands over his mouth, Nick yelled, "Hey, Felix, how's the leg holding up?"

Valentine stiffened. And it hit him: Felix Underman was the F. U. who'd hired Little Hands. He seemed smarter than that, but people often did stupid things when backed into a corner.

Valentine watched Underman leave the arena. Then he rose himself.

"I'll be right back," he said.

Underman wasn't walking very fast and seemed to favor the leg that Nick had kicked, and Valentine quickly caught up to him. Valentine followed him into the casino and through a buzzing mob of gamblers whose excitement was palpable: The odds had dropped, making Holyfield's opponent a two-to-one proposition. Underman went into the men's room, and Valentine followed.

Caesars' johns were something special. Travertine marble ran floor to ceiling and the brass fixtures were so shiny you could see well enough in them to shave. Valentine stood at the sinks and watched Underman enter a stall; then he dropped two fifties in the attendant's tip basket.

"Get lost for a few minutes."

"I could lose my job," the attendant said.

Valentine tossed another hundred into the basket.

"You a cop?" the attendant asked.

"What do you think?"

The attendant left without another word. At the sink, Valentine wadded a handful of paper towels and soaked them with cold water. Then he went to Underman's stall and waited. The defense attorney emerged tugging up his fly. Valentine slapped the towels over his mouth, pushed him into the stall, and shut the door, latching it with his free hand.

"Sit down," he said.

Trembling, Underman lowered himself onto the toilet.

"Look at me," Valentine said.

Underman stared into his eyes.

"See the purple bump on my nose?"

Underman nodded his head vigorously.

"Know who put it there?"

Underman made a noise that sounded like no.

"You sure you don't know?"

A sound like no again.

"A guy you hired put it there. Little Hands Scarpi. Said you sent him to find Fontaine. This ringing any bells?"

Underman took the Fifth.

Valentine cuffed him in the head the way his own old man used to. With feeling. Underman made a sound like stop. Valentine cuffed him again. The defense attorney's breathing grew shallow. Valentine took the towels away and heard Underman's chest rattle.

"I made a mistake," Underman gasped. "I was out of my mind with worry."

"That's no excuse for breaking the law," Valentine said.

"You think I don't know that?" Underman said, sounding more defiant than he had any right to. He tore off a sheet of toilet paper and wiped the spittle that had gathered at the corners of his mouth. "Look, you seem like a reasonable man. I'll give you fifty thousand dollars to forget about this."

Valentine slammed Underman's head against the imported marble. "I don't take bribes, asshole."

"Seventy-five," Underman gasped.

Valentine brought his mouth an inch from the defense attorney's ear. "You're busted, Underman. I'm going to make sure you spend your golden years teaching lifers how to file appeals."

"Now you listen to me-"

Attorneys always had to get in the last word; it was why people hated them so much. A short, quick uppercut snapped Underman's head straight back. His body turned to jelly and he slid off the toilet.

Valentine left him lying on the bathroom floor to think about his future.

The next fight turned out to be the real thing and let Valentine forget his troubles for a little while. The bout was a twelve-round light heavyweight contest for one of the alphabet-soup championship belts. The challenger-a Compton kid named Benny "Lightning" Gonzalez-had more talent than experience and a murderous right hand. His opponent, champion Barry "the Blarney Stone" Ross, had started his career kickboxing in Europe, switched to the sweet science, and won his first thirty fights, knocking out all. It was a classic match-up, boxer versus brawler, age versus experience.

"Something you and I can relate to," Nick said.

As fights went, it was pure drama, with each man pressing the action only to have the other come roaring back. First Gonzalez was ahead, then Ross; then Gonzalez charged back; then Ross asserted himself. When the final bell sounded, both men were still standing, and the crowd rose, cheering itself hoarse.

Valentine had lost his voice in the eighth during one of Gonzalez's furious attempts to finish Ross off, and he stomped his feet and whistled. As the scorecards were read and Ross's arm was raised in triumph, Nick screamed at Ross's corner.

"Who says white guys can't fight?"

A tuxedoed announcer climbed through the ropes. Mike in hand, he introduced the boxing luminaries at ringside, the names spanning several decades. Over the PA system, gospel music was being played, the singer the great Mahalia Jackson.

"It's part of Holyfield's contract," Nick explained. "Gotta play gospel music before every fight. He says it inspires him. Personally, I wish he'd tone down the religious stuff."

"You think it's a put-on?"

"Naw," Nick said. "He's religious. I just think it's silly. After every bout, he thanks God for letting him win. Do you really think God gets some kind of joy out of him turning a guy's face into a pizza?"

"Probably not."

"I'm hungry. Want anything?"

"No, thanks. Mind if I borrow your cell phone?"

"Sure," said Nick as he handed over his phone and left. Taking a scrap of paper with Bill Higgins's cell number on it from his wallet, Valentine punched in the numbers. His friend answered from a bar, shouting to be heard over the televised highlights of the Ross-Gonzalez fight. "I'm not talking to you," Higgins said, sounding drunk.

"Why not?"

"Because you're holding out, that's why. I show you the police evidence and you suddenly clam up."

Valentine heard real anger in Bill's voice. He wanted to explain that he had his reasons, but he knew that would only upset his friend more. He tried another tack.

"I've got a hot tip for you," Valentine said.