by BETH KERY
Ryan had seen some nasty business as a vice detective, but this was one hell of a depraved crowd. He supposed that made sense, because Diamond Jack was one hell of a scumbag.
He tensed when Jack reached for his breast pocket.
"Well, it looks like Shapiro finally sent us someone who knows what he's doing," Jack said as he withdrew a cigar from his pocket and handed it to Ryan. When Ryan refused to take the cigar, he merely shrugged negligently and shoved it in his own mouth. He spoke loud enough for Ryan to hear him but was careful to keep his voice from carrying to the crowd.
"I want to thank you." He nodded his head toward the stage. "I had the odds for the fight set at twenty to one. The last eight guys Shapiro sent over didn't last thirty seconds in the ring with Mario. Betting has been sluggish. Guys come for the blood," Jack explained as he tilted his head toward a man sitting at a raised podium at the far side of the room.
Indeed, dozens of men queued up and money was quickly changing hands. "Because of your little demonstration there, I've changed the odds to ten to one. Those guys think you might cause an upset."
"You think you know better, though, right?"
Jack gave him a viper-like grin before he plunged his own soggy cigar back in his mouth.
"I'll take a couple hundred bets on ten to one versus twenty on twenty to one any day."
"Course if Mario loses, you're not going to be so pleased," Ryan said quietly as he scanned the packed room.
"Sure, fella," Jack chortled around his cigar.
"Shapiro was a little hazy on the details, so I just wanted to clarify my pay before the match."
"Fifteen bucks cash at the end of the match," Jack replied briskly.
"And if I win?"
Jack removed his cigar although some of the tobacco remained clinging to his stained front teeth. His eyelids narrowed speculatively. "Alfie was telling me you've never seen Big Mario. I can tell from your accent you aren't just off the boat," Jack mused. "Where do you live?"
"Bridgeport," Ryan said. Surely the distinctively Irish-American, south-side neighborhood existed in 1906, didn't it?
"I've got some Irish in my background as well," Jack finally murmured after a moment of studying Ryan with his beady, dark eyes. "The prize purse for the boxing match is fifty dollars. That's a lot of money for a mick like you."
"What else?"
Jack's eyebrows went up at Ryan's hard tone. "I see Alfie's been talking again. Well, can't see there's any harm in it. Most of these men know I fire Mario's interest in fighting with the promise of sampling a young lady's charms upstairs. He enjoys the unplucked ones,"
Jack explained with a taut leer.
"So if I win the match, I'll be granted the same pleasure," Jack stated bluntly. He wanted Jack to put the deal into words.
"Like I said, you've got balls," Jack murmured. Ryan returned his stare unwaveringly.
Jack eventually shrugged. "Sure, that's the prize to the winner, even if the winner isn't Big Mario." He once again gave Ryan a cool once-over. "You'd do just as well as anyone for what I have in mind."
"What's the girl look like?"
The laughter faded from around Jack's thin lips. "All of my girls are beauties. Haven't you been satisfied by what you've seen here so far tonight?" he asked, his cadence and tone reverting back to the easy drawl of a southern gentleman.
Ryan gave a small shrug and watched the money rapidly changing hands at the betting station. "They're all right. But if what you've got upstairs is nicer, you should speak up.
You said you like to motivate Big Mario before a match. Don't I deserve the same treatment?" He acutely felt Jack's assessing gaze on him and wondered if he'd gone too far.
"And what'd motivate you?"
"I don't like blondes or redheads. Only brunettes do it for me. Dark hair, dark eyes."
"Is that right?" Jack murmured. "Well, you're in luck, son, because I have the most stunning brunette in five states waiting most patiently upstairs for the victor to join her in bed. Eyes like liquid midnight and skin so white, soft and smooth it'd make a grown man want to weep. I've got some fine fun planned for the man who breaks this beauty in. I want to see some real action in that bed upstairs. Get the picture?" Jack asked, tapping his hand on Ryan's chest and giving him a shrewd, knowing look.
Ryan gave a closed mouth grin to hide his clenched teeth and raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a passable expression of lechery.
"Don't get your hopes up, though, kid," Jack said.
"Why's that?"
"It'll never happen. Because that's your opponent." Jack pointed with his cigar to the entrance of the room. Diamond Jack laughed when he saw Ryan's eyes widen in shock.
"Still, you promise to make it interesting, kid, even if it is just an interesting slaughter."
ELEVEN
Ten minutes later Ryan could hardly hear himself think the din in the Sweet Lash had grown so loud. He carefully folded his coat and placed it on the floor of the platform just outside the ring. His tie and shirt soon followed. He glanced at the pile of clothing and frowned, knowing his gun was in there. He really didn't have anywhere else to leave the items, though, and there were more pressing matters to consider at the moment.
Ryan crawled through the ropes, testing their tautness and strength with a casual strum of his fingers. The men had drawn them sufficiently tight and tied them off on the four steel posts at the corners.
A tinny bell rang. Ryan batted his knuckles together twice in a habitual gesture. Strange to feel his own skin and bone. Big Mario and he were expected to fight bare-fisted.
Considering how much this crowd loved blood, he shouldn't have been surprised.
Ryan swallowed through a dry throat as he moved to face his opponent. A liquid-like, knee-weakening sensation sunk through him and it took Ryan a moment to recognize it as pure, unmitigated fear—fear for Hope if he didn't succeed in beating Mario.
No sooner was he aware of the emotion than he pushed it back to the periphery. Ryan knew what unbridled fear and anger could do to you in the ring.
Jesus Christ, was it his imagination or had he seen Chicago World's Fair posters of Big Mario posing as one of the many oddities on the circus-like atmosphere of the Midway Plaisance? Mario was a behemoth. A freak of nature, as far as Ryan could tell. The bald Algerian towered perhaps six inches over Ryan's six feet four. He wore a thick black mustache beneath a curved hook of a nose. The abundant hair at his upper lip almost covered a vicious-looking slash of a mouth. Muscle bulged on his shoulders, chest and arms, but he'd started to go to fat on his belly and back. The guy was thick everywhere, the sheer bulk of him being what had stunned Ryan when Jack pointed out Big Mario's entrance several minutes ago.
No wonder they claimed Mario could stop a carriage in its tracks. He looked about the weight of one of the steel-clad vehicles. The guy probably had in excess of 150 pounds on Ryan.
He was slow, though, Ryan reminded himself, trying his best to still his racing heart.
Ryan'd have to take advantage of his slothlike movement.
Mario lumbered forward to meet him at the center of the ring. He planted his big feet and came to a complete standstill, making it easy for Ryan to maintain the perfect distance.
The giant looked confused by Ryan's limber footwork. He swiped at him with the biggest paw Ryan'd ever seen in his life. Ryan avoided the punch with an almost negligible fade of his torso.
Difficult not to miss a huge, slow-moving target like that.
Mario took several more wide shots, which Ryan avoided with ease. The crowd jeered the big man's ineffective efforts. Since Mario was so cordial about leaving his big body as exposed as the desert to the wind, Ryan got in a few punches into the midriff.
Mario snarled in annoyance and came at him throwing a barrage of punches, most of which Ryan managed to either avoid, duck or minimize. The giant's technique was sloppy, so Ryan had no difficulty landing three tight jabs to Mario's midsection while his opponent continued t
o throw wide. The guy may have accumulated some flab on the gut, but he was solid as a rock beneath it. Still, he could tell by Mario's grunts and widening eyes that he'd aimed well.
Some of his typical confidence in the boxing ring began to return until Mario penetrated, landing a meaty, thwacking punch to Ryan's solar plexus. A guttural groan exploded out of Ryan's lungs and throat as pain slammed into him with the force of a charging locomotive.
For a few breathless seconds every nerve in Ryan's torso shrieked in protest. Even his heart throbbed in pain, utterly forgetting its purpose. Ryan barely had the presence of mind to clumsily duck beneath Mario's swinging arm and stagger to the center of the ring, his eyes streaming tears down his face.
Damn, that fucker had a hammering punch when he managed to land it right. Ryan took his first full breath shakily and vowed then and there to make sure he minimized at all costs Mario's chance of a dead-on swing again.
Now that he had the sure knowledge that Mario could fell him with one well-placed blow, Ryan's focus narrowed and sharpened even further. This was do or die. He couldn't let that asshole win. The mere thought of Mario even looking at Hope hardened Ryan's already stiff resolve.
The crowd booed when Ryan used his quickness and agility to avoid Mario's punches for the rest of the first round and for a majority of the second, but Ryan could have cared less. His goal was to exhaust the slow-moving giant while at the same time to make every one of his own infrequent punches penetrate and pay richly.
By the time the bell signaled the beginning of the fourth round, Ryan conceded that his strategy of dancing just outside of Mario's reach and taunting the behemoth like an annoying fly was having its effect. Mario had swung thirty punches for every one of Ryan's, but the majority of them had been either entirely ineffective or glancing blows.
Ryan's, on the other hand, had been far more accurate, including a nailing left that had not only put Mario's right eye out of commission for the remainder of the match, but also caused the giant to sway on his feet for a few seconds while the crowd roared in excitement.
Ryan also showed the signs of battle, not having been able to successfully evade every one of Mario's flurry of combinations. His ribs were bruised fairly badly and it burned like hell just to breathe. He tried not to dwell on the effect of using his bare fists to hammer flesh and bone. All in all, however, he had good reason to be hopeful, Ryan thought as he watched Big Mario tip a tankard to his mouth in his corner, slopping what looked like beer all over his already perspiration-soaked body. Ryan's breathing was hardly escalated while Mario still panted from his last bout of wild punches and ineffective pursuance of Ryan around the ring.
Now that he'd gotten Mario used to his tactics of buzz and sting, however, Ryan was going to have to change things up and take a risk.
The bell went off and Ryan tapped his knuckles twice, this time much more tenderly due to the cuts and bruises on his fists.
Mario's eyes went wide when Ryan stormed the center of the ring. His brief shock at Ryan's aggressive attack gave Ryan the advantage. He pounded the behemoth with a combination to the liver, ribs and head before he danced back to his typical out-fighter distance. His last jab at the giant's head had been particularly precise, causing Mario to stumble back and blood droplets to spray through the air in an arc.
Ryan was only vaguely aware of the boom of approving cheers and applause from the crowd of men, every one of whom was on their feet at this point. Ryan narrowed his gaze on his stunned foe, knowing the fury and pain Mario experienced at his offensive attack would be mixed with a good dose of adrenaline. That adrenaline would eventually exhaust Mario even further.
But right at this very second, it would make the giant exponentially more dangerous.
Ryan was going to have to take his punishment.
He'd tried to prepare himself but when Mario's counterattack came, blind panic flashed through him for a second. Mario may have been unsteady on his feet after that last right hook to his head, but he was mad enough to move three times as quickly as he normally did. It was like having a slavering, rabid bear charge him. Mario gave a savage yell as he ran toward him, spittle shooting in front of his gray teeth, the whites of his eyes showing ominously. Ryan managed to minimize his first two wild punches by moving away from their momentum, but Mario caught him with a tight jab to his right brow.
For a nauseating few seconds the lights from the gas chandeliers multiplied before his eyes. As if from a distance Ryan saw a sea of blurred, manic, frenzied faces and punching hands. The loud roar of the crowd slammed into his awareness after a prolonged peaceful moment of total silence.
A white-hot blade of pain pierced his head simultaneously.
He realized that Mario's blow had spun him face-first into the ropes. He barely had time to turn around and put up his fists and forearms to protect his head and chest before Mario flew into him.
Ryan relied on the ropes to absorb the impact of Mario's swings while he tried to regain his equilibrium. He could tell by the Algerian's flurry of wide, blunt punches that he was not only frustrated, but increasingly exhausted. Ryan protected his head, chest and liver as best as he could and allowed Mario the opportunity to tire himself out even further.
He wasn't above taunting him to add mental exhaustion to the physical.
"That all you got, big boy? Hub? What. .. do ya save all the good stuff for the women?"
Ryan shouted behind the relative protection of his fists and forearms. "No wonder all these assholes think you're so tough. Anybody can look like the strongest man on earth when they hit a woman that's a third their weight."
Mario growled between pants, his snarl showing off teeth stained even blacker with tobacco juice than Jack's had been. He let loose with another volley of blunt blows. Ryan grunted as one out of the dozens of glancing punches made direct contact on his ribs. His eyes popped wide. He ground his jaw together and shouted hoarsely through clenched teeth at the vicious explosion of pain that resonated through his flesh.
Ryan didn't think he could survive another direct hit like that. Still, he forced himself to wait, knowing there were cruder and more inevitable foes in a boxing match than a pounding fist. Mario fought against an out-of-shape heart and lungs, fading adrenaline and sheer frustration at that moment, more than anything.
When he saw the Algerian stagger on his feet, temporarily losing his balance, Ryan put all the fuel he had into a rocketing uppercut to the jaw. -
Mario's huge bald head lurched back, his body following suit as he staggered to the center of the ring. He followed him with a barrage of punches, terminating with a chopping shot to the head powered by nearly everything Ryan had left in him.
When Mario went down he went down harder than anything Ryan'd ever felled in the ring. Even so, the eruption of the crowd nearly drowned out the resounding crash of 340
pounds of deadweight against protesting wood board.
Ryan felt someone put his hand on his wrist and raise it. The audience roared its approval. It took him a second to realize Diamond Jack himself stood at center ring declaring him the winner.
"You did it, son. I'm still flat on my ass. And it was such a spectacular match I'm even going to forgive you for losing what I would have had if you hadn't changed the odds to ten to one. Besides, I'll make out like a sultan on the rematch," Jack informed him gleefully over the din of the crowd. "So what d'ya say to that?"
"I say I'm ready for my prize," Jack muttered through tight lips as he lowered his arm forcefully.
"I've got your money right over here."
"That's not the prize I was referring to," Ryan said, meeting Jack's dark, beady eyes.
"Take me to her."
For a moment Jack looked slightly taken aback by his intensity but then he laughed uproariously. "You're eager for it, aren't you, son? Well, you won't be disappointed.
Come on. A deal's a deal."
Jack signaled with his head toward the exit.
"Just a minute. I need
to get my clothes."
"What's the matter?" Jack asked warmly when he heard Ryan mutter a vicious curse a second later.
"My clothes are gone," Ryan hissed.
And so is my gun.
"Damn," Jack said angrily as he glanced around the packed room. "Someone must have nicked them during the frenzy of the knockout. Slimy little sneak thief. Ah well, what can I do? I try to run a nice place but. .. Hey! Where you going, son?"
Ryan jumped down to the main floor and approached the closest table where four men sat, one of them with a half-nude woman sprawled in his lap. They all looked up at Ryan in surprise.
"Did you see someone steal my stuff during the match?" Ryan demanded. He studied each of their faces in turn. Three of them gave him blank stares but the woman and one of the men glanced nervously behind Ryan's shoulder before they shook their heads. Ryan turned to where they'd been looking.
"It's rough luck, son, but your prize money will get you plenty of new clothes," Jack shouted down to him with a winning grin. "Come on; I thought you were all fired up to go upstairs."
Several of the men at the table wolf whistled behind him. "Hope you're nicer to your gal than you were to Mario, mister."
The full impact of Ryan's frustration must have carried in his glare at the men because they shut their mouths quickly enough. He followed Jack toward the exit of the room.
When they reached the hallway, which was garishly decorated with gilt mirrors and crimson wallpaper, Ryan suddenly realized that all four of the men who had sat at the table with Jack followed them.
Ryan paused. Jack and the four men stopped with him.
"That was one hell of a match," a well-groomed man with thick gray whiskers told him.
"Spectacular," another said.
"I'll never forget it as long as I live, seeing you bring down the mighty Mario," a third added jovially.
Ryan studied each of them in turn. With the exception of Mason, all three men were middle-aged and affluent-looking. He imagined he might find them in any number of
