Blood Game

Chapter Twenty-Six

Victor Sovich went down for the first time midway through the eleventh round. What was so surprising for the crowd was that he was scarcely hit. Rooney had thrown a right hand, but it had glanced off Sovich’s shoulder. It was not the sort of punch that could put a man down, but Sovich went to one knee, where he remained for a time while the referee counted off the seconds. Sovich, obviously dizzy, looked with dismay at his comer. What was going on here?

When he regained his feet and the fight went on, Sovich obviously made a decision-to throw his strongest punches against Rooney. The roundhouse, for example, was exactly the kind of punch that had killed people in the past, and probably would have this time-if it had landed. Still suffering from dizziness, Sovich threw three roundhouses during the remaining minutes of the round-but none connected, each missing Rooney’s jaw by an inch or so.

The round concluded with Sovich wobbling his way back to his comer.

His trainer, trying to make some sense of what he was seeing, said, “You’re letting him beat you, Victor.”

“I don’t feel well.”

The trainer got angry. “Too much partying. Too many Mex women.”

Sovich shook his head belligerently. “That water you gave me.” He looked around for the water bottle. “It tasted funny.”

“It isn’t the water you should be worrying about. It’s the partying you did last night.”

Sovich scowled. “We’ll settle this after the fight, you son of a bitch.”

The bell rang.

“You’d better finish him this round, Victor. He’s getting stronger and you’re getting weaker.”

Victor Sovich stood up on trembling legs and moved ponderously back into the ring.

The doc checked for vitals. He glanced up at Guild. Nothing. The doc was a hefty man in a white boater and a yellow shirt and white trousers. He had come out here for a good time, and now he was spending his afternoon with a corpse. The doc, whose name was Fitzgerald, shook his head and got to his feet, his knees cracking as he did so.

He was about to say something to Guild, but just then the door crashed open and there stood John T. Stoddard. Guild had asked one of the boxing people to find him.

Stoddard’s first reaction to being called back here was anger, then terror as he saw his son’s pale hand on the floor from behind the table.

“My God,” Stoddard said.

Guild looked away. He did not like Stoddard, but he did not want to take any pleasure in seeing the arrogant man’s face begin to reflect the waiting sorrow.

Dr. Fitzgerald started to say something to Stoddard. “Be quiet,” Stoddard said.

Stoddard’s footsteps were heavy on the wooden floor. One, two, three, four. He walked over and stood above his son.

“Who did this?”

“You know who did it.”

Stoddard seemed shocked by Guild’s harsh response.

“Reynolds did it,” Guild said. “The man you hired to rob you. He wasn’t much of a shot, Stoddard. Maybe you should have thought of that beforehand.” He thought of what he’d found in Reynolds’s pocket, the office key and a layout of the building. Only Stoddard could have given it to him. He smacked the key on the table.

Stoddard broke then.

He stood swaying miserably above his son, crystal tears on his jowly face. The sounds he made were intolerable for Guild to hear. Guild had sounded not unlike this one night shortly after the little girl’s death.

Guild took Dr. Fitzgerald’s arm and led him out to the hallway, where Reynolds was being wrapped in a blanket.

“What the hell’s going on in there?” Dr. Fitzgerald demanded.

Guild shook his head. “He played it a litde too cute, and it didn’t work.” He thought of Stephen. He slammed a fist into the wall.

“That’s a good way to break some knuckles,” Dr. Fitzgerald said.

But right now Guild didn’t give a damn. He didn’t give a damn at all.