"I want to watch."
"Hurry the f.u.c.k up then," the bouncer says, waving me in. "There are supplies in the changing room. You won"t be on for another hour, maybe more."
"Got any bikes? I need to warm up."
"This your first fight here, eh?"
"Yes," I say.
"Yeah, we got bikes downstairs."
I grin at the bouncer, and then step into the pub. I look around, but the main floor is completely empty. n.o.body is staffing the bar.
"To your right," the bouncer calls. I turn, see the door, and open it. There"s a stairwell going downstairs, dark and musty.
That was way easier than I expected it to be.
The stairwell spits me out into a large underground bas.e.m.e.nt. There are fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling, and the room has this haze to it from all the cigar and cigarette smokers.
The smell of both whiskey and beer hides beneath the smoke, is barely perceptible. Less, still, is the sourness of old sweat and blood.
I feel like I"ve stepped straight onto a movie set.
There"s a growing hubbub of excited chatter. The kind of people here are the unsavory sort. Gangsters, crime families... and a few well-dressed men that aren"t just common street thugs.
But there"s also a considerable number of average-Joe types, with rolled-up s.h.i.+rtsleeves, pot-bellies, and receding hairlines.
So this is a pretty big fight I just stumbled onto. You wouldn"t know it from the outside.
That"s when I see him... Kyle, Ca.s.sie"s father. I squint, make sure it"s him, that I"m not just recognizing somebody else incorrectly.
It"s him, alright, and he"s got a silver briefcase with him. He"s at the bookie"s table, and I see him slide the briefcase over the top of it.
So Mr. Shannon has a vice, I think to myself. A small betting problem... but who would have thought he"d be an underground fight sort of guy? Certainly not me. I would have pegged him as a horses-man, he has that sort of jitteriness to him.
That"s when I notice how uncomfortable he looks. His hands are trembling, and his forehead is beading. He is completely out of his element.
He glances around wildly, like a dog in danger. His eyes go to the various hard types, young kids with tattoos and switchblades, older types with goons and, no doubt, guns.
There"s a small group of mean-looking men walking through the throng. They"re holding out a big bag and walking up to people. I see one man pull a knife from his sock. It gets labeled, dropped into the bag, and the man gets a chip.
Don"t need anything going down in such a tight environment.
They eventually get to me, and I shake my head. They give me a come on look, and so I lift my arms out, let them pat me down.
"You "ere to fight?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Make sure you check-in down the back. We had a couple of drop-outs tonight."
They leave, pat down a few other people, and I back up into the corner of the bas.e.m.e.nt, stand in the shadows, and spark up a cigarette.
Kyle has my attention now. He doesn"t want to be here, it"s clear.
A bald man, short and wide, clears through the crowd, and he leads Kaminski to the cage. Kaminski throws off his robe, runs his hands through his short, sweaty hair, and then slaps them together, spraying a fine mist.
He grins at the audience, his small mouth set in a square head baring surprisingly large teeth.
n.o.body is talking. There are no announcers, no anything. Across the room, behind the bookie"s table, is a digital sign that blinks to life. It reads, "Kaminski vs Mack, 1".
I"ve never heard of any Mack.
The second opponent is led out by the man with the hairless dome. He"s thin, maybe a buck-eighty if that, no older than twenty-five, and is clearly no match for Kaminski who, even after retirement and in his forties, still looks two-thirty and change.
Jesus, I think to myself. That kid is going to get pasted.
I dart my eyes to Kyle again, and see him rubbing his hands together. His brow is creased nervously, and his eyes follow the Mack kid all the way to the cage.
I don"t know what the h.e.l.l he"s so anxious about. Everyone will have bet on Kaminski. The payout will be next to nothing.
Mack hands his robe to the bald man, and then begins to stretch a little. He"s got a naturally good body but he needs to work on it. He"s carrying too much baby fat.
He looks unfocused. His baby-face conveys no confidence. His wide, brown eyes skip all over the place, but never meet Kaminski"s.
He"s a goner.
I run my forefinger and thumb across my forehead. This fight is going to be over as soon as it starts. Kaminski might kill this kid.
The crowd around us begins to get noisier and noisier. More people file down the stairway and enter the room. n.o.body casts their eyes in my direction, which I"m thankful for. The last thing I need is trouble with gangsters in a foreign country.
It should be the last thing Kyle needs, too... especially since he"s over here with his new wife... with his daughter.
I feel a flare of anger at him. What an irresponsible tool.
More line-up at the bookie"s table, place their bets. Briefcases and duffel bags are handed over, and then are taken to a back room, where there is no doubt a safe and guards with guns.
This is a proper operation. Only Kyle, and a handful of others, look confused.
He wrings his hands continuously, can"t stop from jittering on his feet. He"s sweated through his grey suit jacket.
This f.u.c.ker needs this bet in a bad way, it seems.
But that"s when it hits me, the oddness of it all. Mack is no match for Kaminski. Even if he"s trained, he is simply outcla.s.sed physically. Everybody would be placing their bets on Kaminski... the winnings would be slim.
Betting two grand to make back two-point-two hardly seems worth it. In fact... even the bookie wouldn"t take bets on these odds.
"Oh s.h.i.+t," I say to myself, looking between Kyle and the cage. Kyle bet on the Mack kid! That"s got to be it.
Kaminski is going to throw the fight!
s.h.i.+t just got interesting.
"You sly f.u.c.ker," I say, looking at Kyle. He knows that Kaminski is going to throw the match. He"ll make out like a bandit betting the underdog at what must be insane odds. "You sly motherf.u.c.ker."
There must be some kind of agreement. I notice, then, that more people are looking at Mack, rather than Kaminski. They"re practically rubbing their hands together like greedy cartoon caricatures.
This whole thing is a big sham. Kyle and whoever else is betting on Mack are about to rip off a ton of people who bet on Kaminski.
It strikes me that this place could get very dangerous after the upset.
Who the f.u.c.k is Ca.s.sie"s father involved with? How did he swing something like this? Or if he didn"t organize it, how did he get in on it?
He never struck me as anything but a middle-aged, middle-cla.s.s man caught in a middle-life crisis.
The low, wide bald man now climbs into the cage, and brings the two fighters together to tap fists. "I want a clean fight!" he says.
The audience laughs.
The bald man, refereeing, starts the fight, and in an instant Kaminski is on the kid. He feints left, throws the kid"s center of gravity off, then kicks out the kid"s legs.
Mack goes down hard, and is winded. He holds onto his chest while Kaminski clambers on top of him, rolls him over, and gets him into a rear naked choke hold.
f.u.c.k. It"s lights out for that kid within twenty seconds if he can"t worm out. Kaminski doesn"t relent. He"s beneath Mack, got his legs wrapped around the boy"s waist, and his forearm and elbow crushed against his neck. He holds onto his own fist with the other hand, and pulls.
The rear naked choke is not the most painful choke, but it is effective as f.u.c.k. With no leverage against the mat, Mack can"t get out of the vice-like legs squeezing at his waist. With no purchase, he can"t land a punch anywhere on Kaminski"s body.
I watch, wincing, as the kid grows weaker and weaker. In under half a minute, he"s unconscious, body limp.
That"s it. Fight"s over. Like I called it... over before it started.
Kaminski lets him go, rolls him over. He gets up, and as is customary to him when he used to be a winning fighter, storms out of the cage and into the back room to get back onto a bike and stay warm.
The audience, at first silenced by the brutality and quickness of the fight, erupts into chatter.
Half look pleased, half look p.i.s.sed.
This was a double-cross. Kaminski was never going to throw the fight!
I dart my eyes to the bookie table, and they"re all looking mighty pleased with themselves.
I look toward Kyle, and see that he"s gone white as flour. His hands are limp at his sides, his fingers are trembling, and he"s looking at Mack, still unconscious in the cage, eyes wide with disbelief.
They played him for a f.u.c.king chump. Him, and about a dozen others.
Kyle"s face begins to grow red. He turns to the bookie and bellows, "You tricked me, you piece of s.h.i.+t!"
All heads swivel to him.
f.u.c.k.
Time to pull his a.s.s out of the fire.
Chapter Twenty Two.
I storm over to Ca.s.sie"s father, pus.h.i.+ng people out of my way. Already I can see bouncers going to him, so I rush to get there first.
I get him into a headlock, and knee him in the stomach, winding him, silencing him so his big mouth doesn"t get him into trouble he can"t get out of.
"Shut the f.u.c.k up!" I bark at him, and begin pulling him toward the stairwell. I glare at the bouncers. "I got this. Going to teach this p.r.i.c.k a lesson!"
They stop their advance, let me through, and I take the heaving man up the steps, and then kick him out of the doorway of the pub. He goes tumbling into the street.
"He"s mine!" I shout at the two bouncers at the door, obviously getting ready for action. They put their hands up as if to say, "have at it", and so I charge out after Kyle.
He gets to his feet, shaky, and sees my face. He"s about to call my name when I slam my cupped fist against his mouth, wrap an arm around his neck, and drag him off down the road, and into an alley.
"Stay quiet you dumb f.u.c.k," I growl into his ear. "Or we"re both done for."
When we get far enough down the rancid-smelling alley, I let him go, and he tries to push me impotently.
"f.u.c.k you!" he shouts, voice cracking.
Angry now, I press my forehead against his, then head-b.u.t.t him. He sprawls backward, hands clamped to his forehead.
"You want to fight me?" I snarl, spreading my arms. "Are you sure?"
"They tricked me!" Kyle cries, still rubbing his forehead. His whole body is shaking. He"s a nervous wreck.
"And they would have f.u.c.king broken your legs for calling them out like that in front of everybody else," I say, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You f.u.c.king idiot, did you really think Kaminski was going to throw the fight?"
"That f.u.c.king bookie promised me he would. Last week, he promised me."
"How do you even know them?"
"They"re business a.s.sociates."
"What do you do?"
"I work in finance, okay?"