Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

“Star, come on back!” Star’s corner shouted. It was Browning callin’ him in. Star stayed in the ring, lettin’ Harris know. Servin’ notice, demandin’ respect. The crowd roared at the grandstanding and Star gulped it down like cold beer. His first professional fight, an eight-rounder, and he was about to win it. A TV camera focused on him and reporters took notes. Star felt the best he had ever felt in his life. Except Anthony wasn’t here to see it.

“Come on, Star!” Browning yelled. “Come on back! You only got a second, man!”

Star looked at the crowd, standin’ up for him. The men clappin’, hands over their heads, the women givin’ him the eye. Their faces, all excited, so close to the ring he could make them out. Everybody from the gym was there. Mr. Gaines, Danny Morales, and his foxy wife. Everybody but Anthony. It killed Star when he shoulda been the happiest. Where the fuck was that squirrel with the hair plugs? Star scanned the crowd and found the dude. He was in the back, his head wrapped in goddamn bandages. Makin’ sure Star kept up his end of the bargain. Harris in seven. Dude better have kept his end.

“Star! Come in, get your ass back here! Get your fuckin’ ass back here!”

Star turned and sauntered back to his corner, the crowd on its feet, going crazy for him. They were seeing history and they knew it. Years from now they could say they were at Star Harald’s first professional fight. He wouldn’t be fighting at the Blue anymore, he’d be at the Convention Center or Bally’s. Bruce Willis would sit ringside and the TV cameras would be pay-per-view. Star’s purse would go from twenty grand to twenty million.

“You got him, man!” Browning shouted as Star sat down in his corner. “You opened him up! When you get back out there, stay upstairs. Circle to the right. Look for a right cross behind your left!”

Star tuned out Browning. His thoughts were on that bitch. She better be dead. He spit his mouthguard into a hand covered in a latex glove while another glove wiped sweat off his face and squirted water into his mouth. A third set of gloves smeared Vaseline on his eyebrows, but Star waved them off. Harris wasn’t going to be landing anything in the seventh. Star would knock him out in the seventh.

Ring! It was the round bell. Star got off the stool and jumped to get his blood moving. Loosen up. A gloved hand popped in his moutlhguard.

“You know what to do, Star!” Browning started up again. “Finish him off, man! He don’t want no more. Can’t take no more. Finish him the fuck off !”

Star charged out of his corner, gloves up, light on his feet. He went straight at Harris, who backed off, his left high, tryin’ to protect his eye. Star waited for his moment. Harris didn’t throw anything, just danced back like a pussy, gloves in front of his cut eye. Fresh red blood drippin’ like tears in a line down his cheek.

The crowd screamed for the knockout punch. They smelled the blood. They knew it was comin’. Star had to throw it. Harris blinked blood out of his eye and backed into the ropes. The cut was so bad the ref would call the fight any second. Star pushed Harris against the ropes, throwing left jabs. Had to get Harris lookin’ for the left, so he could throw the right into the cut. Star stayed patient. It drove the crowd crazy. The TV cameras rolled.

Suddenly Star found another way. He caught Harris with a left uppercut to the gut. Harris dropped his right arm, covering up. His left was still high, but he was open. The crowd screamed as Star followed with a left hook to the temple. Harris took one step back, then slumped forward to his knees. The ref waved Star to a neutral corner, but Star didn’t move. It was too sweet a sight. Mojo Harris kneeling unconscious in front of him.

The ref shoved Star to the corner and started his count. By the time he got to three, it was over. The ref waved the fight off, a knockout, as Star threw his fists into the air and roared.

After the fight, Star gave interview after interview, talkin’ to the newspapers, Ring magazine, and even a guy from Sports Illustrated. There were so many reporters, Star couldn’t even make it into the locker room. He stood outside, jawin’ into microphones with white boxes showing the stations. USA, ESPN, KYW. Browning yapped more than Star did, actin’ like Don King while other managers sucked up. They was comin’ to Star now, but the boxer didn’t want to see ’em. Only dude he wanted to see was that squirrel with the hair plugs.

“Star, yo!” said a voice behind him, and Star finished signing another autograph and turned around. It was the squirrel wearin’ head bandages that made him look like a dothead. In his hand was a black Adidas gym bag. Make sure it got done.

“Get your ass inside,” Star said. He opened the dressing room door, shoved the dude, and shouted at his people to clear out. He locked the door behind them and faced the dude alone. “You do that bitch?” Star demanded.

“Man, you were unreal! I never saw a fight like that! You could take anybody! You could be the champ!”

“I am the champ, motherfucker! Answer me. Tell me that bitch is dead.”

“She’s dead, man. She’s history, and you just made me and my boss a shitload.” The dude was smilin’ like an idiot, but Star wasn’t.

“How I know you did her? You bring the proof?”

“Sure. I got it, just like you said.” The dude reached into the gym bag and brought out a crumpled paper bag with a greasy stain on the bottom. “Here, look.”

Star leaned over and peeked into the bag. The sight turned his stomach. In the bag was a mess of blond hair matted with blood and stuck to a bloody scalp. The skin on the scalp was so white it coulda been a doll’s. The smell was disgusting, like fresh road kill. Star pushed it away. “Get that outta my face, asshole.”

“You said, show me.” The dude closed the bag fast and stuck it back in the gym bag. “You wanted proof.”

Then Star realized something. “How’m I supposed to know it’s Connolly’s, asshole? Could be somebody else’s hair, any bitch’s hair.”

“Shit, ’course it’s Connolly’s. Dyed blond and all, just like you said, Star. Look, man, even got the black roots.” The dude reached in the bag again, but Star reared back with disgust.

“Get that shit outta my sight!” Star waved at the bag and watched as the dude put the bag away. It had to be Connolly’s, didn’t it? Connolly was dead. The bitch was dead. They had held up their side of the bargain, and Star had done more than his part. He’d won by a TKO in the seventh. It made him feel good, where his heart ached.

Finally there was an end to it. Star had gotten justice, for Anthony.

And he was on his way to the top.

Bennie didn’t reach the cottage until dark. If she hadn’t been there before, she never would have found the place. She pulled Grady’s old Saab up to the fork in the road and took the unpaved driveway to the cottage, where she found herself in luck. A light was on inside the house, shining gold through the trees. Winslow was home. Bennie would get to see him. Meet him. Her father.

She cut the Saab’s headlights, leaving on the low beams as she drove closer. Rocks and gravel crunched under the car’s tires. A rusty red pickup stood out in front of the cottage, and Bennie parked next to it. She cut the ignition, got out of the Saab, and walked slowly up to the house. On the way she found herself patting her hair and smoothing down her suit skirt. Might as well look nice.

Bennie stood in front of the screen door, summoning her nerve. From beyond the lighted screen came the unmistakable sound of a man humming. Bennie felt oddly delighted. Her father was humming. What was the tune? She inclined her head toward the screen, and a brown moth fluttered away on dusty wings. She didn’t recognize the song, then the humming stopped abruptly.