Windy City Knights

by Michael A. Black

  “That’s kind of difficult,” I said. “She’s staying at my house for a few days.”

  He rolled his eyes and snorted disgustedly.

  “And you tellin’ me you two ain’t messin’ around?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I guess it don’t matter none no how. You don’t never listen to what I tell you anyway,” he said. “Just remember, you got the biggest fight of your career coming up and you gonna jeopardize it all if you…” He didn’t complete the sentence. After a deep breath he said, “Look, Ron, this ain’t gonna be no cakewalk. I called some people I know up around Detroit and they told me that Elijah Day be trainin’ his heart out. He remember what you did to him last time and he out for redemption.”

  “I know that,” I said. “But he ain’t gonna get it.”

  Chappie smiled slightly, then told me to go warm up. “I want you sweatin’ just like before a regular fight,” he said. “We go real hard today, but it’ll be your last hard workout. Then easy to moderate till fight night.”

  I nodded and started stretching and loosening up. After about twelve minutes Chappie came back with three black guys. I knew two of them. Melvin Prodder, who was about my size, and Jessie Wilson, who was taller than I was but about thirty pounds lighter. Chappie introduced the other guy as Demetrius Wall. He looked about the same weight and build as Elijah Day.

  “Demetrius from Miami,” Chappie said. “Friend of mine down there told him to look me up.”

  I nodded a hello and continued shadowboxing. Chappie gave them each helmets and sixteen-ounce gloves, and then slipped a pair on my hands. After knotting them and pulling a helmet over my head, he motioned for me and Melvin to get up into the ring.

  “Okay,” he said. “This is what we lookin’ for.” He gave me a rundown of what he’d heard Day was doing. He told me he wanted me to stick and move, to take the fight into the later rounds. “Day’s got that big, muscle-bound build. He gonna get tired after about four or five, then we gonna put him to sleep. So we goin’ a full twelve today.”

  A full twelve meant that we’d be going a full three minutes each round, like boxing, instead of the standard two-minute rounds of kick-boxing. As I slipped through the ropes I thought that I had thirty-six minutes of hell in front of me. Forty-seven if you counted the minute breaks in between.

  Melvin always earned his money. He had quick hands and picked up extra money as a journeyman boxer and professional sparring partner. I used my jab to pick him apart and set up a couple of good right hands.

  “Get them damn kicks in!” Chappie yelled. Kickboxing regulations required that each fighter throw a minimum of seven hard kicks per round. A light meter was set up on the ring posts, keeping track of them. If you missed your standard quota, you had to make it up the next round or be disqualified. Chappie always hated that rule, but preferred it to the other organization that allowed leg kicks, in the Thai-boxing style. Those could be hell on your knees and usually shortened your career significantly.

  I picked it up, throwing several front kicks at Melvin, and caught him with a side kick that knocked him into the ropes. He took a couple of ragged breaths after that and danced away from me. I closed in after him and smacked another front kick into his side. It must have caught him in the liver, because he dropped to one knee. Chappie, who’d been inside the ring acting as sort of an unofficial referee, pushed me toward a neutral corner and began tolling an exceptionally slow count. When he reached eight, Melvin got up and raised his hands. The bell rang as I moved forward.

  “Good round,” Chappie said to me as he sprayed some water on my face. “But slow down. Our game plan is to draw it out. Dance around a few.” He replaced Melvin with Demetrius and told us to get started when the bell rang.

  Demetrius, unlike Melvin, was a full-contact karate fighter and had a good arsenal of punches and kicks. He kept bringing his left knee up to block my front kick until I feinted once and smashed a right to his body. After that he was more cautious. Chappie let us go three, which did me good since I wasn’t familiar with his style. That meant that I had to figure things out during the round. He did manage to tag me a couple of times before the bell rang, and I realized I was getting tired.

  Chappie put Jessie in next. He was adept at using his feet as well, and his lighter weight gave him a slight edge in the speed department. I chased him for three rounds, managing to cut the ring off toward the end of the last one. When I finally trapped him on the ropes I made him pay for all his hitting and running by punishing his body. I kept up my barrage until the bell rang. Jessie’s face was slightly contorted as he headed for the corner, but we slapped hands, the boxer’s handshake, to show our mutual respect.

  Melvin came back in for two. Chappie kept yelling for me to “Stick and move,” so I ended up dancing and letting him chase me. Toward the end of the last round he ran out of gas and remained crab-like on the ropes while I pummeled him. But the quick pace had taken its toll on me as well. I felt exhausted, my arms and legs feeling like they had lead weights attached to them. Chappie must have been planning on this because he sent in a freshly rested Demetrius for the last three. It was his test to see if I was really in top shape or not. And I knew if I could win these remaining rounds against a fresh opponent I’d really stand a good chance of taking that championship belt away from Elijah Day.

  Demetrius became Day in my mind’s eye. I started after him with a fervor and determination to make every shot count. He countered beautifully, using that leg-block effectively at first. For two rounds we dueled, give-and-take. He caught me with a couple of shots that rang in my head. I countered and caught him with a left hook that made him wince. When the bell rang signaling the end of the eleventh, we both staggered over to our respective corners. Chappie checked me over first, massaging my shoulders and putting more Vaseline over my face.

  “You good for one more?” he asked.

  I knew he was testing me.

  I nodded.

  He strode across the ring and administered to Demetrius. I had time to take in two deep breaths before the bell rang.

  At this point I felt the surge of adrenaline that I always got knowing I was going into the last round. We moved to the center of the ring and exchanged kicks. Circling, he tossed, I followed. Each of us pushed, trying to land solidly on the other. I missed with a left hook and he came over the top with a right cross counter that knocked me back, then down. Chappie was standing over me and swinging his hand counting. I was up at five, telling myself that it was more of a slip than a knockdown. “Dance and clear your head,” I heard Chappie saying. My legs felt rubbery for a few seconds, then seemed to come back. Demetrius, grinning widely, moved forward, intent on delivering a knockout blow. I danced away instead of trying to meet him. Been there, done that, I thought, and let him chase me. I bounced around on my toes while he plodded forward. When he came in close to punch I feinted with the front kick again. His left came down involuntarily in an instinctive block, and I had my opening. My right hand caught him in the jaw and he crumpled like a bag of dirty laundry.

  He showed guts getting to his feet after a very long eight count. I moved in quickly and blasted a combination to his body, then his head. Reeling, he lurched toward the ropes, covering up. I followed, throwing a few light front kicks, then a couple more hooks. I heard him grunt, and he had that glassy-eyed stare of a guy on the verge of being knocked out. I glanced for Chappie, who was standing a few feet away. I tossed a couple more punches then stepped back. I knew I could have finished him right then and there, but didn’t. Instead I danced back to the center and let him follow me on his rubbery legs. He was still on queer street. The bell rang a scant twenty seconds later. Chappie moved forward and jumped between us. He glared at me and then took Demetrius’s arm and escorted him to the corner.

  “Set that stool in there for this boy,” Chappie yelled at Melvin. After he sat Demetrius down and sprayed some water over him, he came over to me.

  “You had him there,” he
said, squeezing a steady spray over my face. “Why didn’t you finish him?”

  “Ah, gym wars,” I said. “Who needs ’em?” I opened my mouth and he directed the spray into it.

  “That kind of thinkin’ ain’t gonna win the big one for you,” he said. “Not finishin’ a man when you got him…It’s a bad habit to get into.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

  “He paid to take a beatin’,” Chappie said. “You think he wasn’t trying to impress me by knockin’ your head off?”

  My arms felt so tired that I propped them up on the ropes. I was too exhausted to argue with him, but I knew I could have finished it with a knockout. That was the difference. I looked across the ring and saw Demetrius leaning forward now, his elbows on his knees, head down. He knew too. Beyond him Melvin and Jessie sat toweling off. Jessie raised his hand and gave me the thumbs-up gesture. Over by the doorway, her back against the wall, Laurie stood watching all of us.

  CHAPTER 18

  I hobbled over to Laurie and leaned against the wall.

  “Wow,” she said, brushing some hair away from her face. “Brice suggested that I come and watch you spar. You looked great, but…It was pretty brutal. Will the fight be that bad?”

  “Worse,” I said. “This was a cakewalk compared to what I have in store next Friday.” She was still in her spandex and was looking very svelte. “I need to get some steam to unkink before I shower.”

  “Oh?” She smiled. “That sounds nice.”

  “They just have a sauna booth on the women’s side,” I said.

  “Oh, too bad it’s not co-ed. So how long will you be?”

  “I’ll need about twenty-five minutes total.”

  “Well, I usually need at least twice that long to shower and fix my hair.” I rolled my eyes and she quickly added, “But I’ll bet I can beat you.”

  I told her I’d race her and appreciated her musical laugh as she moved toward the locker rooms. Something I regretted a few moments later when Chappie walked by and said, “Un-huh.”

  I frowned and grabbed my ditty bag.

  The steam room was way too hot, so I decided on the sauna instead. We had both on the men’s side. After stripping down and drinking copious amounts of water, I went inside and sat on the wooden bench, leaning forward. I felt the gentle embrace of the heated air sweep over me and immediately started to sweat again while mulling over the case. And our next moves. I watched the droplets fall to the floor and wind their way between the dark tiles toward the center drain.

  Ten minutes was about all I could stand. I went to the fountain, then hung my towel on the hook and hit the shower. Usually nothing feels quite as good as a hot shower after a hard workout, but today I really felt drained. No second wind today, I wearily thought after drying off. I took my time getting dressed then stuck my head out the door to see if Laurie was done yet. I didn’t see her, so I fished out some coins and called George from the pay phone. He answered after three rings.

  “Detective Grieves.”

  “Yeah, it’s Ron. You busy?”

  “Not at the moment,” he said guardedly. “Why?”

  “It just took you a long time to answer.”

  “It’s an old police rule. Never answer the phone before the third ring,” he said chuckling. “If you do, the people on the other end think you’re sitting around with your thumb up your ass. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I dropped off the truck in front of your house,” I said. “Ellen wasn’t home so I still got the keys. And, yes, it’s got a full tank.”

  “Well, thanks for telling me, but I figured it would,” he said. “You probably still need a favor or two from me this week.”

  “Hey, you’re starting to sound like a real honest-to-God detective. How about I drop by in a little while and give you the keys?”

  “Make it later on this afternoon. Doug and I were just about to grab some lunch,” he said. “Anyway, you sound beat. Where you at?”

  “I just finished my last hard workout before the fight.” I rotated my shoulders, which were beginning to feel stiff and sore.

  “Hell, don’t worry about the keys. I’ll get ’em tomorrow. I got an extra set.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, we might take off early to night ourselves. This snowstorm’s keeping people off the streets.” He laughed. “Tomorrow we’ll catch hell ’cause everybody will be shooting each other from being cooped up together. But at least those kind are easy to clear.”

  “Such cynicism from a dedicated public servant,” I said with a chuckle. “Say, did you find anything on those phone numbers yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, how about that Peeps guy?” I asked. “Anything come back on him?”

  “I ain’t had time to run him yet.”

  “You just said you were sitting around doing nothing.”

  “Doing nothing!” he snorted. “You don’t know how lucky you are to be your own boss. Not to have some prick breathing down your neck all day. Oh shit, here comes the L.T. Check with me later.” He hung up abruptly, and I knew that my old buddy Bielmaster must have been prowling in the station.

  I fished another quarter and some nickels out of my pocket along with the card from the medical clinic. It was Friday and I had one more call to make that I’d been putting off. I fed the change into the pay phone and dialed.

  After about twenty rings the receptionist answered and immediately put me on hold. The computerized operator broke the silence periodically by telling me that I had to deposit “ten cents more please, for the next one minute.” I dropped two more dimes into the slot, wondering if I’d have enough change.

  Finally a nurse with a Draconian voice came on the line and asked if she could help me.

  “I hope so,” I said. I gave her my name and told her I was calling for the results of my blood test.

  She put me on hold again. This time, at least, the background was some radio station, but it sounded like Yanni’s greatest hits. After dropping two more dimes in the slot, the nurse finally came back on the line.

  “Mr. Shade?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to come in for those results,” she said. “We can’t give them out over the phone.”

  “Why not?” I asked, suddenly feeling a chill creep up my spine.

  “It’s standard procedure for that type of test. We’re not even allowed to open the envelope until the patient is present.”

  “Can’t you just hold it up to the light and look through it to give me a hint?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  I sighed.

  “Okay, I’ll be right over,” I said, and hung up.

  I tried my best to look nonchalant when I walked out of the locker room. Laurie was standing by the office talking to Chappie.

  “See, I told you I’d beat you,” she said, punching me lightly on the arm. Chappie eyed this action closely, then let his quiet gaze settle on me.

  “Keep him straight now, Laurie,” he said with a grin. But he sort of squinted when he glanced my way.

  “Hey, Ron,” Brice called from the other room. “There’s some guy waiting in front to see you.”

  I told Laurie to wait and went to the front reception room. A big guy in a tan coat and a dark fur hat stood stamping the snow off his feet. When he looked up and smiled, it took me a moment to place him. The whiskers of his beard and mustache were frosted with ice.

  “Father Dilousovich,” I said. “How are you?”

  He extended a hand, after withdrawing it from a worn mitten, and we shook.

  “Ah, Mr. Shade, I am flattered that you remember me,” he said. “But please, call me Boris.”

  “Only if you call me Ron,” I said. “I’m afraid Alley’s already left for the day.”

  “I know.” His entire face creased into a frown. “But it is you I came to speak with. May I buy you lunch?”

  “Well, I’m kind of beat right now,” I sa
id, thinking about that damn envelope in the care of the truculent nurse waiting for me over at the clinic.

  “Mr. Shade, I’m very sorry to impose on you like this,” the priest said. “But it is imperative that we talk. Please.”

  I noticed him slipping a bus transfer from his mitten to his pocket. The poor guy had taken the CTA all the way from the North Side just to try and see me.

  “Okay, as long as it’s a quick one.”

  “Oh, my car is in for repairs,” he said. “Otherwise, I would offer to drive you.”

  “We can take mine,” I said. I went and got Laurie and introduced them.

  Outside the snow had really started to accumulate. I started up The Beater, got out, and swept off at least three inches of fluff from the hood, windshield, and roof. I usually don’t let people see me driving it. When you work for yourself, the kind of car you drive is an inevitable indication of your level of professionalism. People will assume, if you’re driving a shit-car, that you must be a loser. And who wants to hire a loser to help them solve their problem? Probably the same people who would go to a dentist with a beat-up ’57 Edsel. I made a mental note to go looking for a new car as soon as the weather broke.

  After three attempts to get out of the parking spot, I finally succeeded. We sped down the alley and headed out onto Western Avenue. I shot down to 111th Street to a nice place called Leona’s, glancing at my watch the whole way. A lot of coppers from the Morgan Park Station eat there regularly. Boris ordered chicken kiev, and Laurie a burger and fries. I ordered some broiled chicken and a salad and drank three glasses of water. When the waitress passed I asked her to bring me another one.

  “A strenuous workout today, Mr. Shade?” he asked.

  “My last hard sparring session before the fight,” I said. “It’s next Friday. Want to come?”

  “Certainly, I will try to make it.” The waitress came by and filled our coffee cups. Boris took a long sip, then wiped his mustache with a napkin. He inhaled deeply before he spoke.