Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

Before the contents fell, Typhus recognized the wrapping. A burlap bag made for holding coffee beans, but also good for any number of functions, including rebirthing babies in muddy rivers. Malaria held the bag from its bottom corners, pinching fingers and pulling up; spilling its contents to the floor.

Malaria screamed. Typhus’ eyes filled with water. Dropsy accepted, stating simply, “I was hopin’ fer meat.”

On the floor, lay exactly six shoes.

Fresh tracks outside betrayed the recent presence of a large man with bare feet.

The oversized and square right fist of the big white man arced wide to connect with the unguarded cheek of the Christ Kid-and Eugene Reilly felt a twinge of panic tickle his bladder.

The Christ Kid was looking punchy and incompetent-this had not been the plan, had not been the agreement, not at all in accordance with promises made by Crawfish Bob’s allegedly disenfranchised right-hand man Stiffy Lacoume. Still, Reilly held out a hope. Maybe this was all part of the act. Just to make it look good. Believable. Everyone knew Windmill Willie was the easy favorite, a win from the Christ Kid was near unthinkable-and a quick win would smell like the rat it was.

The Christ Kid ducked a second windmill-but a hard right jab to the midsection followed shortly. The Kid flurried in return; sending six but delivering only two.

On the bright side, the Kid did manage the occasional connection. On the grim side, the white giant hardly seemed fazed. The bulk of the crowd, having gone with shorter odds and smarter money, whooped and hollered for the Christ Kid’s inevitable demise. Reilly tried to ignore his nagging bladder as he fantasized of slow and creative ways to end the life of that double-crossing Cajun charlatan who’d suckered him with every sucker’s favorite bait: the words “sure thing.”

Then, as if Reilly’s distress was spelled out across his forehead, Stiffy materialized in apparent response. Placing a hand on Reilly’s shoulder, he bent to the Irishman’s ear, “Pretty good show, eh, Mr. Reilly?”

“I think our boy’s in trouble,” Reilly grumbled.

Stiffy made an injured expression. “Have a little faith, my friend. Those boys both know the score-and neither has an ounce of love ner loyalty for that shameless skinflint Crawfish Bob. They were told to make it look good, and that’s just what they’re doing.”

Reilly, unconvinced: “I dunno. The Kid looks like he’s losing his footing. Like he’s losing consciousness, fer chrissakes.”

Stiffy smiled wide, exposing large brownish teeth, two of which were chipped enough to expose blackened centers. “Of course he does, pardna! Of course he does!”

“If this is Willie’s idea of a dive, I don’t like it. Not one bit, I don’t.”

“Well, perhaps business of this sort is conducted less subtly in the Great State of New York, Mr. Reilly. Here in the South we enjoy adding a little dramatic flair to everything we do.”

Shit-grinning swindler , thought Reilly. “If this is a double-cross, I swear to Christ…”

Stiffy gave Reilly another firm pat on the shoulder, followed by, “Just relax and enjoy the show, friend. You’ll see.” Stiffy vanished into the crowd, waddling with confidence.

“Smug bastard,” Reilly hissed under breath, although he had to admit the old coot’s confidence had bolstered his own somewhat.

The Christ Kid failed to block a quick succession of brutal blows to the ribs and fell hard to his knees, gasping for air. The pudgy, balding man who functioned as referee angled his body between the two fighters and began the count:

“ONE… TWO…THREE…”

“Goddamnit,” said Reilly through clenched teeth.

“FOUR…”

If this was part of the show, it was too damn convincing. A one-sided workout at best, Willie was only slightly winded, a thin sheen of sweat lightly coating him from forehead to ankle. The white boxer easily caught his breath and casually examined his swollen knuckles while the Christ Kid wheezed in apparent agony on the canvas. This couldn’t be happening, Reilly thought. He had five thousand dollars riding on this “sure thing.” Someone would pay for this, by God.

“FIVE…”

He couldn’t look. Reilly’s eyes surveyed the room, eventually settling on the kid they called Ratboy, who immediately preceding the boxing match had dispatched a record forty-three rats in three minutes with a wide, nail studded stick. Ratboy was now sitting on the floor near the bar dabbing a collection of small, bloody ankle wounds with a moist cloth. At first glance, Reilly mistook the expression on Ratboy’s face for a pained grimace-but after a moment he deciphered the expression more accurately: The kid was grinning from ear to ear. Holy Jesus Harold Q. Christ , thought Reilly. Does the whole state of Louisiana need to be fitted for a rubber hat? Oh, how he longed to return home, to the place he’d always considered the toughest, most dangerous place on earth, his beloved New York City. Up north, at least, the dregs of society retained the smallest crumb of dignity. Up north, they only pitted dogs and niggers against rats in the fight pits. Not light-haired children snatched from the looney bin.

In his prime, Reilly had been considered one of New York’s finest short-con operators. His game had been faro, and he was damn good at it-hell, he practically invented its modern version. In its early days, faro was considered the fairest of all gambling endeavors, the dealer’s advantage being a mere two per cent. Reilly had single-handedly coupled creativity and skill to subvert this fairest of games, his innovation being the manufacture of a special dealing box-a handcrafted steel and brass affair complete with hidden levers, plates, and springs-that allowed the dealer to not only preview the deck’s order, but to manipulate it. It was the physical beauty of the box itself that had the marks lining up; its shiny authority and fine detail reflected upon its owner-a thieving shyster could not possibly own such a beautiful gadget.

That was long ago, though, before the game’s reputation had been tarnished by the hundreds of tag-a-long imitators and their own clumsy variations and ham-fisted executions. The new generation of unimaginative bums had ruined the system for dignified entrepreneurs like Reilly. He’d made his fortune, but had spent it too fast-and now he was looking for a quick way to multiply what remained. This trip to New Orleans was supposed to be a simple holiday-like so many Northerners, he’d been enticed by tales of Storyville’s legendary feminine delicacies. But a trusted friend had urged him to contact Stiffy Lacoume while in town, had assured him Stiffy was a reliable man and an excellent source of quick investment opportunities. And so here he was.

“SIX…”

Goddamnitall straight to hell.

Reilly’s dumbfounded eyes located Stiffy’s puffy mug across the ring; poker-pussed and unblinking, looking straight at him. Then: the slightest nod, followed by an almost imperceptible wink.

In an instant, everything changed.

The Christ Kid had risen.

“SEV-”

The body of the Christ Kid trailed the comet of his fist, barreling forwards, knocking the ref over backwards along the way. Windmill Willie hadn’t seen any of it, had missed the shriek of the ref and the gasp of the bettors, missed the swoosh of the Christ Kid’s breeze. Even the impact to Willie’s jaw failed to register until his bulk reeled against gravity, losing to sharp physics; crashing to the mat.

The crowd held its collective breath and Reilly let out a too-audible sigh. Stiffy threw him a wide grin, shaking his head as if to say: “I told you so, mister.” Dazed but uncursing, the ref picked himself up and solemnly went about a new count, this time to the detriment of Windmill Willie.