Raptor: Urban Fantasy Noir

by Bostick, B. A.

  “Any word on the kids? Sister Cate is swamped with runaways who don’t want to be out on the street at night.”

  “I don’t think they can stonewall this much longer. I smell Task Force, made up of the usual spin doctors, toadies, boot lickers and other expendable incompetents. That’ll give them time to figure out who to blame and come up with something to explain it all away.”

  “Who’s going to be in charge?”

  “My money’s on Ted Bourman. He’s the Chief’s spinmeister. Remember the way he handled that underage hooker thing for the mayor? He’ll probably announce that all the missing kids joined the Foreign Legion and are alive and well living in the Moroccan desert.”

  Bishop shrugged. He’d had contact with Ted Bourman when he was working Vice. The man had lizard eyes and the ability to make almost any lie seem like a plausible explanation.

  “Speaking of putting money on something,” Ariel said to Rain. “Frank says you have a fool-proof system.”

  Rain loved being recognized as a player. Bishop watched as he preened a bit at Ariel’s compliment. Then he sighed. The next fifteen minutes were going to be a recap of Ray Mann’s greatest bets. Thankfully, that would probably take the rest of the trip.

  * * *

  The entrance to Zaki’s estate was a hive of activity. A red jacketed valet relieved Rain of the Dowager Queen and a five dollar bill with the aplomb and prestidigitation of someone whose living is built on tips. Another red coat scanned their invitations with a hand held device and passed them though the gate.

  Bishop took a covert look at the large, grey gargoyles sitting on the top of the pillars flanking the entrance. They gave no indication of being anything other than stone statues, but he noticed Ariel kept her head down as she went through the gate.

  Inside, a crowd barrier had been set up with a single point of entry. A guard fed the invitations into a machine as each guest pressed his thumb to a glass plate. A blue light swept quickly underneath the plate and ten seconds later a translucent plastic strip inched out through a slot and dropped into the guard’s waiting hand.

  The strip was reminiscent of the self-locking ties that were sometimes used in place of handcuffs. Once on, it would have to be cut off. The guard made sure each bracelet was securely fastened and pointed the trio toward a waiting bus for the five minute ride to the arena.

  On the bus, Ariel examined her bracelet. Several thin strips of wire ran through it. Cassius’ intuition had been correct. She hoped she would have the opportunity to slip out of it and take a look around.

  Not much was visible from the driveway except trees. Eventually, the road split and the driver took the left fork. It ended at a large parking lot shared by the building Cassius had pointed out in the satellite photos and one other, set further back into the woods by the lakeshore. The Arena.

  The arena had been constructed as a wide, stone oval with a glass dome for a roof. The whole effect made Bishop think of a Roman coliseum on steroids, complete with an arched colonnade, topped by super-size niches holding statues of anatomically correct gods and goddesses with a few gargoyles thrown in for good measure.

  Although it wasn’t dark yet everything was brightly lit, including a set of Kliegs that cris-crossed the sky with blue-white beams of light. Buses were disgorging passengers at the entrance.

  Everyone seemed to be in a party mood. It was hard to distinguish those who had money and had come just to enjoy themselves, from those who had come to place serious bets.

  Bishop thought he recognized a few famous, and even infamous faces, including some politicians, a lobbyist whose name was usually attached to companies with large government contracts, and a couple of movie stars well known for their bad-boy ways. The women were mostly decoration, although Bishop spied a few who had a hard, business-like set to their faces. No one looked incapable of placing a substantial bet.

  Inside, the building was even larger than it appeared from the outside. The lobby ringed the top of the game floor with sheer walls of glass; alcoves framed by faux Roman pillars allowed observers to stand or sit and watch the action without actually entering the stadium. Beyond the glass, four tiers of plush theater seats descended at least two stories below ground level. High on the walls, glass-fronted celebrity Skyboxes seemed to hang in space, affording their occupants a bird’s eye view of whatever was happening below.

  Bishop estimated the arena would probably hold three hundred people, but only about half the seats were filling up.

  Tables of food and drink had been set up around the lobby circumference, everything with the compliments of the host. Bishop, Rain and Ariel loaded their plates with exotic goodies, collected drinks and went to find three seats with a good view of the floor. An usher handed them programs and assured Rain that because the combat ring was an oval there were no bad seats.

  “Most of this building must be underground,” Rain said as they took three seats in a middle tier.

  Ariel insisted on the aisle seat, explaining that she had a touch of claustrophobia in crowds.

  Bishop set his beer in the convenient cup holder in the arm of his chair and flipped up a small, laminated table top for his plate. Cocktail waitresses were walking the aisles taking drink orders from seated guests. “I could get used to this,” he said.

  Rain opened his program. “It starts with three kick boxing matches, followed by a Sumo wrestling competition, then something called Kuk Sool Won. And finally, Ultimate Fighting. Not for the faint hearted, it says. All fighters have signed a release of liability for serious injury or death.”

  “Is that legal?” Ariel asked.

  Rain shrugged. “Combat sports are rough. Sometimes players are crippled or even killed. It depends on the circumstances whether it qualifies as a crime or not.”

  A moment later the lights dimmed, making the ring a bright circle of light in the middle of the arena. A man in a black suit with an embroidered gold vest slid between the ropes to grab a microphone descending on a cable from the ceiling.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” He announced, pacing a circle so that he would only have his back to any of Zaki’s guests for a few moments at a time. “Welcome to the Yamazaki Kiriyenko Sporting Arena. This is a private facility and you are our honored guests. Please feel free to feast at our banquet tables and drink freely of the beverages we provide. Our hosts and hostesses will be circulating throughout the arena all evening and will be happy to replenish your beverages and comestibles.”

  “As Ringmaster, it is my duty to warn you that what you see tonight may shock you. What we present here at the Sporting Arena are the ultimate in ultimate sports matches. There are few rules. We do not use a point system or stop our contests because of injury or concession. You need not worry about the opinion of judges; the winners will be obvious to all.”

  “What I can absolutely promise you is that there will be blood, and there will be pain or worse. If this becomes too much for anyone, please notify one of our ushers and we will gladly provide you with assistance or transportation home.”

  “The rules for our audience are:

  Although you may become caught up in a moment of enthusiasm, please do not approach the ring for any reason.

  You may, of course, bet among yourselves but we also provide you with the opportunity to bet against the house. Please place, or increase your bets at any time before or during the match. For your convenience, our bookmen and ladies will pass among you. Simply wave them down and place your bet. The odds will be on the big screens at each end of the arena.

  Finally: Do not, at any time, attempt to leave the building. Armed security staff accompanied by trained canines patrol this property and we would hate to see anyone injured in a misunderstanding. Smoking is allowed in the lobby, and oxygen will be provided if you feel the need for a breath of fresh air.”

  There was general laughter at this remark.

  “We will start the program with some of our youngest contenders. These youngsters are still in training,
but I think you will enjoy their enthusiasm.”

  Tipping back his head, the ring master let out a final, booming pronouncement.

  “Let the games begin!”

  A blast of sound and huge screens set at intervals along the walls of the arena sprang to life, showing a panorama of the arena followed by close-ups of the ring. Betting odds scrolled across the top of the screens, designating the contestants as red or blue. Even the youngster’s matches could be bet on.

  Two adolescent boys appeared from the tunnels at opposite ends of the arena. They were dressed in black pants, a red or blue t-shirt and sported lightly padded boxing gloves that allowed more hand movement than traditional gloves. They stepped into the ring and joined the announcer in the middle. He said a few, inaudible words to them and slipped between the ropes onto the arena floor.

  The boys tapped gloves, the bell rang and the fight began.

  It was a kick boxing style Bishop didn’t recognize, not that he gave kick boxing much attention. When he and Rain were partners they’d hung out with people who frequented illegal matches where there was always betting and drugs. Initially, the fights had some style to them. The participants were often Asian fighters, trained in a certain style, with a certain set of rules, but this type of fighting quickly deteriorated into free-for-all matches where anyone who thought they could kick and punch were allowed to compete until someone was knocked unconscious.

  The first two kids were evenly matched. They’d obviously had training, but not a lot of time in the ring. What they lacked in skill they made up for with enthusiasm, punching and kicking until one caught the other with a roundhouse kick to the jaw, knocking him out. The crowd clapped politely while the downed fighter was carried from the ring.

  In the next match, the boys were older and one was larger than the other by twenty or thirty pounds and three inches in height. Surprisingly, the smaller of the two won. He worked at his opponent like an attack terrier until he managed to get behind him and put him down by springing into the air and delivering a solid punch to the back of his head and a kick to the lower spine as he was pitching forward onto his face.

  The crowd cheered as the winner raised his gloved hands in the air in a victory gesture. Even the announcer gave him a quick pat on the shoulder as he left the ring.

  Rain hadn’t placed a bet yet and neither had most of the spectators. They knew this was just the warm-up. They’d probably never seen the combatants before and didn’t want to waste their money on them. The few bills that did change hands were mostly friendly bets between guests.

  The third match sparked a lot of enthusiasm. The fighters were female, still in late adolescence and dressed like the boys, although instead of t-shirts they each wore a red or blue colored sports bra with a wide X-strap which allowed for free range of motion in the shoulders. The bras also showed off their lean muscles and the outline of their young breasts to the crowd.

  If anything, the girls were more ruthless than the boys, going for the face, knees and kidneys with brutal efficiency. It almost seemed like a grudge match and the more they savaged each other the better the crowd liked it. Soon they were both bleeding and beginning to stagger under repeated blows.

  Finally, the blue fighter caught her opponent with a vicious upper cut to the jaw. The red girl’s head snapped back and to the side and a spray of blood arched into the air from her open mouth. As she started to crumble to the mat, the blue girl kicked her legs out from under her, then kicked her unconscious body twice in the back, causing her to roll over onto her face.

  The crowd went wild, but the blue fighter didn’t raise her fists in triumph. Instead, she walked a single, contemptuous circle around the fallen girl, as if she was savoring the beating she had delivered more than the spectator’s applause. She quickly slipped between the ropes and was gone.

  “Whoa,” Rain said. “Wish I’d put my money on her.”

  Ariel leaned forward, a slight frown on her face. “That wasn’t an exhibition match, and what they’re being taught isn’t a sport.”

  In the ring the loser was handed through the ropes to what appeared to be paramedics in white scrubs. Her body had an unsettling, boneless quality to it and her head lolled as if it had been loosened from the rest of her. But she was quickly taken away and the men in white scrubs seemed unconcerned as they loaded her onto a rolling stretcher.

  The announcer climbed back into the ring, grabbing the microphone as it dropped from the ceiling. “That was Lena, winner and one of our five furies. L-E-N-A. I suggest you write it down. This girl will be back!”

  The ropes began to sink into the floor. The announcer moved to the edge of the platform. The middle of the circle shifted down and sideways. A tray of white sand surrounded by low bales of straw emerged and stopped three feet above the surface of the ring.

  “And now,” the announcer intoned, circling the tray, “for the heavy weight part of our program.”

  The large screens were suddenly filled with the image of two huge Sumo wrestlers in their traditional mawashi, or loin cloth. Each man weighed well over four hundred pounds, all of it on display in overlapping mounds of naked flesh except for the minimal amount covered by the mawashi. One of the wrestlers had the rich, dusky skin of someone of African descent.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus!” Rain muttered. “I haven’t seen that much wrinkled booty since my Auntie Violet tripped going down the church steps and rolled to the curb with her skirt over her head.”

  “On the east screen,” the announcer continued in a louder voice. “Weighing in at five hundred and twenty-two pounds, is Nioarashi Nozumu of Japan. In his country, Nozumu-san holds the Sumo title of Sanyaku, or champion.”

  On the west screen, at four hundred and eighty six pounds, the formidable Akuma Isogoro, a champion in his own right, trained and sponsored by our host, Yamazaki Kiriyenko.

  The sport of Sumo wrestling may be unfamiliar to many of you. As you can see by the size of the rikishi, or wrestlers, Sumo is a contest of strength that has been practiced in Japan for over a thousand years. The combat ring or dohyo is made of clay and sand. Matches are won by one rikishi forcing the other out of the ring, or causing him to touch the sand by any part of his body except his feet.

  “Tonight’s series of five bouts will be overseen by a traditional referee or gyogi.”

  Bishop noticed some excitement in the stands. There seemed to be a contingent of Japanese businessmen who were already enthusiastically motioning for a bookman to come take their bets.

  “Something for everyone, I guess,” he told Ariel.

  “I think this is my cue to go find the ladies room.”

  “Are you . . .”

  “I might walk around a bit. Can I bring you anything back from the bar?”

  Bishop frowned. He didn’t want Ariel going off on her own without a better feel for what the possibilities might be. “But you’ll miss all the excitement.”

  Ariel looked up at the screens and shuddered. “Don’t worry, I won’t be gone long. There seem to be other guests who aren’t Sumo enthusiasts taking the opportunity to stretch their legs.”

  “Well, that would include me,” Bishop said. “Feel like some company? Rain?”

  “You two go on. I have to see what a brother that size can do.”

  * * *

  Ariel was right, quite a few of the guests had decided the Sumo contest was the perfect time to take a break, freshen their drinks and graze the splendid array of offerings on the buffet tables.

  The Raptor threaded her arm through Bishop’s and the two of them started to make a circuit around the lobby, just one more couple enjoying an evening watching human beings beat each other up.

  “This place is locked down pretty tight,” Bishop murmured, letting his eyes roam over the locked doors, glass walls and high ceilings.

  “Mmmm,” Ariel leaned her head against his shoulder. “We need to look for a back way out, or at least a way into the lower level where the fighters hang out before bouts. I�
��m sure there’s a connection between the two buildings.”

  “But even if we got over there and actually found him, how would we get him out?”

  Ariel started to say something about air ducts but then, to Bishop’s great surprise, she suddenly pivoted into his arms, spun him into an alcove so his back was to the lobby and firmly planted her lips against his. It was entirely unexpected but not at all unpleasant.

  He let his arms go around her back. Her lips were firm and warm and seemed to fit naturally against his. She smelled like ginger, sandalwood and lime, something he’d never noticed before – maybe it was a scent she’d put on because she was dressing up, but he liked it. In fact, he liked the whole experience, but he could tell from the slight tension in her body that she had embraced him for a reason that had nothing to do with wanting to kiss him.

  “What?” he murmured against her lips, reluctant to break contact, his exhalation mingling softly with hers.

  “Look over my shoulder into the window.”

  Bishop shifted his head slightly to the side. It took his brain a second or two to pull back from looking through the window to looking at what was reflected in the window. Behind him, a small man in a yellow and black stripped suit and bowler hat was coming down the stairs from the celebrity box level. He had a thick, eight and a half by eleven size envelope under his arm. He wasn’t exactly rushing, but there was a brisk, determined purpose to his movement. He flashed a card at one of the security guards at the door and the man opened it just enough for him to slip through.

  “Ow,” Ariel said, slightly breathless, and Bishop realized he’d gone from enjoying an unexpected kiss to gripping his partner against him in some sort of death lock.

  “Sorry,” he let her go and turned to watch the little man hurry out of sight into the parking lot.

  “Him again!” Bishop said. “What is he, some kind of cat with nine lives? You blew him out a ten-story window, the police found his body locked in the trunk of my loaner car, and now he shows up at Zaki’s arena like nothing ever happened.”