The music pumped again, and the boxers and their people climbed out of the ring. The music stopped, and the sound bounced around the room for a few more seconds before dropping into an eerie silence.

  I looked around for Breyer Priestly. I thought the president of the whole shebang might be there for all the fights, but it was now clear that Priestly didn’t spend his daylight hours watching the nobodies hit each other.

  A few more people filtered in, and the ring announcer took some more water as the pundits up at the desk started yelling at each other about what the next fight might hold.

  I wandered to the back of the theater, looking for a new vantage point on Priestly. I still didn’t see him, so I stood in the concourse to watch the next fight. Another couple guys came out to batter each other, and as the fight drew to a close, I saw a familiar face at ringside, so I walked back down.

  “Harv,” I said.

  “Hello, it’s . . . ”

  “Miami Jones.”

  “Right. You were looking into that thing for Johnny.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “No. I been training.”

  “Johnny’s been arrested. They say he killed a guy at the Pugilists’ Club.”

  Harv shook his head. “That can’t be.”

  “Afraid it is. You wanna grab a seat?” I pointed to the first row up at the concourse, where we could get a good view of the whole ring and not get hit with sweat.

  Harv eased himself into a seat as if he had just gone a few rounds himself. He was no spring chicken, but he managed.

  “How’s Tina?” he asked.

  “Keeping it together, just.”

  “You get any money for her?”

  “Some. But we can do better. That’s why I’m here. Do you know if Breyer Priestly comes to these events?”

  “The president of the GBC? Sure, but he won’t be at the undercard.”

  “Undercard?”

  “At a big event like this, the fights go on for about five or six hours. What you’re seeing here, during the day, is the undercard. Fighters who are up and coming, or not. Maybe headed down, in some cases. Limited TV and, as you can see, not many fans.”

  “I did notice. Is it usually like this?”

  “Always. By the time the main event comes on later tonight, it’ll be a full house.”

  “So I’m a bit early?”

  “By about four hours.”

  “Awesome.”

  The ring announcer reappeared in his red jacket and called in the next fighters.

  “Your guy won,” I said.

  “Yeah. He’s a good kid. Not the hardest puncher but still a good kid.”

  It felt like an odd way to assess someone’s character—either good or someone who punches hard.

  “Does he have a shot at a title or something?”

  “We’ll see. He’s not a contender yet.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “You know boxers get ranked, right?”

  “Yeah, but not how.”

  “Based on their wins and losses, the quality of their opponents—that sort of thing. Once you get into the top ten rankings for your weight class, you officially become a contender. Then you hopefully start fighting other contenders to work your way up.”

  “So you have to get to number one as a contender to get a title shot?”

  “Not necessarily. Once you’re in the top ten, it also depends on your connections. If you have a good manager and you’ve got a record of attracting fans to the fights, you can jump the queue some.”

  “Seems like there’s a lot of who you know, not what you know.”

  “Like life. Look at these two kids.” He directed my attention to the ring, where two men were about to battle.

  “These guys are lightweights, up to a hundred and thirty pounds. Neither are top ten yet, but the guy in the yellow shorts is a prospect.”

  “Why?”

  “Fast feet, fast hands. See, some guys hit hard and can knock you out with one punch. But a guy who’s fast and has good technique, good defense, he can avoid that big hit and get lots of smaller shots in, wearing his opponent down. It’s like Johnny and Allan. Two good fighters but opposite styles.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Allan—they called him ‘Steamtrain Samson’ because he came out fast and liked to run over his opponents. He was a decent mover but a big hitter. They called Johnny ‘Slumber’ because he would box his opponents to sleep. He wasn’t such a big puncher and rarely knocked his opponent out. He won most of his bouts by technical merit or on points. He would just box away, score a point here, a point there, not often a big shot but a scoring shot. That was his problem.”

  “How was it his problem?”

  “Johnny was a boxer’s boxer, one for the aficionados. But most fans want to see big hits and knockouts—not too early, mind you; they want their money’s worth. That’s what they love. That’s why Johnny was never a big-ticket seller. The fans who didn’t really understand boxing found his style boring. Allan was a knockout guy. He sold tickets. You know about ticket sellers?”

  “Yeah, Maxine explained it to me.”

  “You met Maxine? Good. She help?”

  “In more ways than I know. She’s good people.”

  “She is that.”

  “She said Johnny became a journeyman.”

  “That’s about it. Because he was technically good but not a big hitter, managers could trust him to test their guys but not knock them out.”

  “Did he beat Samson that night?”

  “The shot? Allan would have won on points, he was the more popular boxer.”

  “Fans like big hitters.”

  “You’re getting it. But did Johnny put him down, or did he trip? Let me put it this way: I don’t know what made him go down, but I know what made him not get up, and it wasn’t a twisted knee.”

  The bell went off and instead of the usual delay, dancing, and feeling out the situation, the fighter in the red shorts went straight in hard, throwing punches like he was being attacked by invisible bats.

  “You see that?” said Harv. “He’s trying to end it early. Get one or two good shots in. Tells me he can’t last.”

  “How long is this fight?”

  “This one is eight rounds.”

  “Your guy only went four.”

  “Undercard. They go from four up to twelve usually, for a title fight. But watch, see the red shorts? He’s already dropping his hands. That early barrage took his wind.”

  “He hardly hit the other guy though.”

  “Throwing air swings takes more energy than a punch that lands. Think about the physics of it.”

  I understood a bit about biomechanics from my pitching days, but I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about Newton’s laws.

  “If you hit, you transfer the momentum into your opponent, but if you miss, you have to arrest that momentum all by yourself or you fall over. Takes effort.”

  The bell rang and the fighters moved to their corners.

  “Harv, did you ever see Johnny get into a fight outside the ring?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. Stone’s rule, my rule. I don’t allow it. All the fighting happens in the ring. That’s rule number one.”

  “But he wasn’t one of your fighters anymore. Not for a decade.”

  “If you’re one of mine, you’re one of mine for life. See, Miami, you gotta understand that a lot of the kids who come to me don’t got a lot else going for them. They often don’t have great home situations—there’s money troubles, domestic troubles, single parents struggling through, doing the best they can. There’s anger in those kids, and hitting a heavy bag is a great way to work that stuff through. You work out in my gym for a couple hours a day, you don’t have a lot of energy left to get into trouble. But if you do, rule one is there. I tell ’em straight. You get into fights outside the ring, you’re done. You’re out. I don’t tolerate it.”

  “Some must do it anyway.”

  “They do. And they get sent packing. I might give a kid a second chance after a while, but never a third. You either get it or you don’t. So if fighting outside the ring is your thing, you never become one of my guys. Simple.”

  “And Johnny was one of your guys?”

  “For sure. He worked hard. He did it right. He got a shot and it didn’t quite go his way, but that’s the game. But he learned rule number one. Even after my boys stopped training with me, they had that rule ingrained in them and they lived it. Now watch this guy.”

  Harv pointed at the ring, and the boxers came together. The fighter in the red shorts tried again to knock his opponent out with a bunch of haymakers. They all missed. After about thirty seconds, he ran out of energy.

  “Now watch the guy in the yellow shorts. See, a smart boxer knows when to defend and when to attack. He goes on the back foot to make sure none of those wild swings hit, then when the puff is gone, he attacks.”

  Yellow shorts threw a series of jabs into the gloves and face, then he moved in and threw short hits into the body.

  “See, he’s smart. He’s working his opponent into the corner, so red has nowhere to go.”

  Red shorts looked spent, then suddenly he used both his gloves to push his opponent’s chest. Yellow shorts stumbled backward.

  “Whoa,” said Harv. “Can’t do that.”

  The referee moved in and spoke to red shorts.

  “He got stuck in the corner and couldn’t fight his way out, so he just shoved his opponent out the way. Can’t do that.”

  The boxers came together once again, and red shorts got in close, almost grabbing yellow shorts and shoving him into the far corner, but yellow shorts deftly stepped aside and clocked his opponent in the side of the head as he stumbled past.

  “See that? Yellow shorts was getting pushed into the corner, but he’s fast enough on his feet to avoid it. He doesn’t want to get stuck in the corner. Limits his movement, prevents him from evading the big one. That’s the only place red shorts is likely to win, and yellow shorts knows it. A smart boxer always avoids the corner. Even when it feels like a win, it’s a losing move.”

  The bell ended the round.

  “So about Johnny,” I said, “what do you think would get him so worked up that he would go to the club after closing to meet a drug dealer and punch him dead?”

  “He met a dealer?”

  “Yeah. Ricky the Fudge.”

  “He killed Ricky the Fudge?”

  “Yep.”

  “No great waste.”

  “Maybe true, but still manslaughter at best, possibly murder.”

  “Murder? How’s that?”

  “The sheriff seems to think Johnny may have gone there with the intent to kill.”

  “I don’t see it. Johnny lived rule number one.”

  “Johnny wasn’t well, Harv.”

  “I know, kid, but I still don’t see it.”

  I wondered if he couldn’t see it or if he just didn’t want to.

  “You ever hear anything about Johnny having a specific beef with Ricky?”

  “Everyone had a beef with the Fudge.”

  “You didn’t think much of him. It’s not the same as killing him.”

  Harv shrugged and focused on the match.

  “So, you ever hear anything between them?”

  “Nothing really.”

  “Look, I’m on Johnny’s side. I’m trying to find ways to make this less bad because it’s never going to be good. But if the cops are going to find history, I need to know so I can find a way to explain it.”

  “All I’m saying is, Johnny knew rule number one.”

  “I get that.”

  “But there was a rumor.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was mentioned that the Fudge might have branched out to selling his drugs at the high school.”

  “Which high school?”

  “The one around the corner from Johnny’s house. The one his girls go to.”

  “You think his girls got into drugs and Johnny did something about it?”

  “No. I’m saying it was a rumor. Hell, it wasn’t even a rumor. I maybe heard it once.”

  “Where?”

  “At the gym.”

  “From who?”

  “I think Allan might have mentioned it, as in, if Johnny finds out, there’ll be trouble.”

  “How would Samson know? Does he have kids?”

  “Allan? No. But he has his ear to the ground, you know. A lot of locals come through the gym. But I never heard anything about Johnny finding out, and like I say, I only heard it the once.”

  The fighters came out for one more round. The guy in the red shorts wanted to wrestle more than box. He was spent. His defense was dropping, and yellow shorts was jabbing him in the face at will. I had to give the other guy credit though. Despite all the punches to his face, he didn’t go down. He went in close to grapple and take time off the clock, but yellow shorts popped him with a left into his six-pack.

  “Ooh,” said Harv.

  “What?”

  “Liver shot.”

  Yellow shorts stepped back and threw a couple punches high that bounced off his opponent’s gloves. Red shorts took a half step back, stayed in place for a second, and dropped to one knee. The referee came in close and spoke to him, then stood and waved his arms out wide. Yellow shorts put his arms up in victory.

  “What the heck happened?”

  “TKO.”

  “What?”

  “Technical knockout. The referee called it off.”

  “Why?”

  “Liver shot.”

  “That one to the ribs? It didn’t look like anything.” Yellow shorts was waving to the nonexistent crowd, but I was watching red shorts. He was still on one knee. A doctor had climbed in through the ropes to talk to him. “Maxine told me a liver shot was what did Samson in against Johnny.”

  “That’s what they say. The liver is on the right side of the abdomen, down near the bottom of the rib cage. If a guy swings or opens up his right arm, a left to the body can hit it directly.”

  “But it’s the liver, not the heart. He’s still not up.”

  “Damage to the liver can sap the energy out of a guy, to the point where he can’t even stand. If it’s a good one, it can send the body into shock. That boy’s going to be hurting tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? He doesn’t look that good now.”

  After several minutes, red shorts was able to gingerly stand up, and he was assisted out of the ring. The ring announcer called the winner with a single fighter beside him.

  I must have been shaking my head at the whole thing, because Harv said, “You’re not a fan.”

  “Huh? Of boxing?”

  “You don’t think much of it.”

  “I’ve been punched before, and I don’t really see the fun in it.”

  “You watch football?”

  “Sure.”

  “You think getting tackled by those big boys is fun?”

  “I played the game. I know it’s not. But punching a guy’s lights out is not the point of football.”

  “Agreed. I’m not gonna argue it ain’t barbaric. But it’s also pure. Mano a mano. One warrior against another.”

  “You can say the same thing about chess.”

  “You see chess getting kids off the street? Is chess getting them fit and healthy? There aren’t too many fat boxers, you know. I get kids in my gym who eat nothing but fast food because the parent is working three jobs with no time to spare, and they do nothing but play video games. Six months in the gym they’re a different person.”

  “I’m not saying these guys aren’t athletes, Harv. That’s one hell of a workout. But when I see Johnny Cabrini’s kids fearing what their father might do to them, then I gotta ask whether it’s worth it.”

  “Johnny isn’t every fighter, kid. You’re looking at the worst result and assuming everyone is like that.”

  “Maybe. But it seems to me that there are a lot of people making money on this at the expense of the athletes.”

  “Welcome to life.”

  We sat for a while, watching the light show on the ring, and then Harv asked me if I was staying for the main event.

  “I’m staying until I find Breyer Priestly.”

  “Then you’ll be here a few more hours.” He levered himself up out of his seat.

  “You not staying?”

  “I’ve seen it all before. Take care.”

  “Thanks, Harv. Look after yourself.”

  He walked back around the ring and disappeared, then I checked my watch. I wanted to see Breyer Priestly, but I had had my fill of boxing for the day, so I decided to go for a walk.

  I ventured out to the massive resort pool, put on my shades, ordered an Arnold Palmer, and sat on a poolside lounger in my tuxedo, waiting for the sun to set.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By the time I got back to the venue, it was nighttime and the crowd had filled in. There was an audible buzz in the theater, and people seemed in good spirits. Not to my complete surprise, I was overdressed. People didn’t dress up for anything anymore. Theatergoers wore chinos and wedding guests turned up in jeans or shorts. I was a casual dresser most of the time, but I really didn’t see why we all had to wear leisure suits outside the house all the time.

  The usher checked my pass and offered to walk me to my seat. The undercard bouts allowed for a guy like me to meander about, but at the business end of proceedings, I had a third-row seat on the right side. I thanked the usher, but I didn’t sit.

  The ringside seats were only half occupied as things headed toward the first of three fights on the main card—the final bout of the evening was for the world title. As people stood around chatting and looking wonderful, I wandered around the ring with my eye on the front row.

  I didn’t see Breyer Priestly. But I did see a seat bearing a placard with his name on it. I leaned over a judges’ table against the ring, and while two people were talking I borrowed a marker. Then I sat down to wait.

  Camera operators were moving around ringside, filming spectators. I recognized a guy from a nineties television show that I had never watched and one of the local news anchors. There was a couple that the camera guy kept drifting back to who might have been an actor and his supermodel wife, but they also might have been a local cosmetic surgeon and his test bunny.