The Best American Mystery Stories 2017

Doug Allyn Puncher’s Chance

From Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine

My sister finished me in the third round. It wasn’t a big punch. It stung, but didn’t do serious damage.

But it definitely got the job done.

We were sparring in the ring of our family gym, tuning each other up, getting prepped for fights only a few days away.

Jilly’s bout would open the show at Motor City Stadium, Detroit’s version of Madison Square Garden. Home of the Red Wings, Big Time Wrestling, and the Friday Night Fights. Chick boxers are mostly a diversion, eye candy tacked onto a program to pump up the crowd. No one takes them seriously. Yet.

Jilly’s trying to change that, one round at a time. Cute, blond, and blocky, she could pass for a junior-college cheerleader.

Who punches like a pile driver.

I was hoping my opponent wouldn’t be much tougher than hers. I’d be facing Kid Juba, a middleweight from Chicago. He’s been away from the game for a few years with drug problems, looking for a big comeback.

So am I. Juba will be my first bout since I ripped a rotator cuff last fall.

The docs say my shoulder’s healed now, good to go. I can curl my own weight again and spar all damn day with only an occasional ache. But boxing careers can crash and burn in a few tough years, and the six-month layoff to rehab my shoulder has been driving me bonkers.

I was desperate to get back in the ring, desperate to get my life back on track.

I come from a Detroit family of fighters, the Irish Maguires. Boxing isn’t a sport to us, it’s been the family business for three generations. We own our own gym, train ourselves. My grandfather Daryl was a welterweight contender back in the eighties. Fought Ray Leonard and Tommy Hearns in their primes. My Pops, Gus Maguire, won silver in the Olympics and coached U.S. boxing teams three times.

I’m next in line, with little brothers Sean and Liam only a few years behind me.

Jilly is the first female Maguire to step through the ropes. And if the game doesn’t take women seriously, nobody told Jilly. She fights every round like a freakin’ headhunter. No mercy, no quarter asked or given.

Pops didn’t want her in the ring, said it was no fit place for a woman. When she pushed it, he matched her with Liam, who’s only fifteen but a strapping lad with fifty-plus Golden Gloves bouts under his belt. He promptly put her on the deck.

No big surprise. Every green fighter gets clocked, especially if she’s fighting a Maguire. But Jilly shook it off, and the next round she threw an elbow in a clinch and busted Liam’s lower lip open. The dirty foul ended the bout. It took sixteen stitches to close the wound. But it got my Pops’s attention.

After she sent Liam to the emergency room, Pops quit blowing Jilly off. Noted that she could take a punch, refused a hand up when she got dropped, and came back fiercer than before.

And most of all, noted how hungry she was. It takes more than guts and skill to prevail in the ring. It takes smarts and tenacity and, above all, the will to win. Jilly’s got the whole package. She can take a punch and she’s even better at dishing them out.

Usually.

But not today.

As we boxed, I realized Jilly was holding herself in check, pulling her punches. My freakin’ baby sister was actually taking it easy on me in the ring.

Screw this! I slipped her next hook, then clinched, pinning her arms tight against her sides.

“C’mon, little twit! Put some steam on it, if you got any!” I gave her a rabbit punch as we broke, and she swung an elbow, barely missing my nose.

“Time!” Pops yelled, before we could do each other serious harm.

I didn’t bother with the stool, stayed on my feet, dancing in my corner, steaming.

“Keep your guard up, Mick,” Pops chortled. “Your sister’s gettin’ miffed.”

“Good! Hey, Jilly! I won’t be fighting a girl come Friday night,” I yelled across the ring. “This Kid Juba will be lookin’ to drop a Maguire, make a name for himself. Crank it up, goddamn it! Show me something!”

And she did. She showed me I was finished.

At the bell, Jilly came out of her corner like Smokin’ Joe Frazier, punching like a machine, a steady drumbeat of serious blows, every one dead-eye accurate.

Which was exactly what I needed. It woke me up. On full defensive alert now, I was picking off her punches with my gloves and forearms, fighting on autopilot, more interested in her skills than my own.

I threw a right-hand lead to slow her roll; she countered it with a stiff left hook to the base of my rib cage. I dropped my elbow to block the punch...

But I missed it.

Her hook grazed my arm, then struck home, digging under my ribs. It wasn’t full strength, but it definitely stung. And I winced. And read the shock in her eyes.

As we both realized I’d just missed a basic block.

Because I couldn’t make it.

My surgically repaired shoulder had a glitch. My range of motion had been reduced by an inch. One critical inch. The healing was done, and so was I.

I couldn’t drop my elbow far enough to defend my gut. It was a fatal flaw. One that any schooled fighter would spot in a round or two. And when he did, he’d start firing body shots that would snap me in half.

The same way my little sister had nearly dropped me by sheer accident.

“Time!” Pops called, though we were only forty seconds into the round. “Time, goddamn it!”

Jilly followed me to my corner.

“What the hell was that?” they demanded together.

“I missed a block,” I growled, though I was as shaken as they were. “No big deal.”

“It looked big to me,” Pops growled. “Lower your elbow.”

I did.

“All the way down!”

“That is all the way,” I said, swallowing bile. “That’s as far as it freakin’ goes.”

“Ah, sweet Jaysus,” he said, turning away. Pops looked like he wanted to throw up, and Jilly was nearly as green.

I knew exactly how they felt. Because we all knew what it meant.

As long as I could throw leather I’d have a puncher’s chance. The hope of landing one big punch that’ll turn a fight around. Or end it.

But the permanent gap in my guard meant I’d never have the prime-time career I’d trained and sweated for all my life. In a single round, with a single punch, I’d gone from being a contender to a burnout.

I could still earn for a while. Guys could pad their records by beating hell out of me, and even losers’ purses add up. But every bout would send me further down the road to Palookaville.

Stick a fork in me. I was done.

I dropped down on the stool in my corner, staring down at my shoelaces, seeing the wreckage of my life swirling in the spit bucket. Don’t know how long I sat there. Eventually I came out of the fog. Realized Jilly had hit the showers. Probably to hide her tears.

But Pops hadn’t gone. He was parked on a wooden bench against the gym wall, looking even worse than I felt. Which was saying something.

I climbed through the ropes and eased down beside him.

“C’mon, Pops, it ain’t the end of the world. Liam’s almost of age, and his punch is bigger than mine—”

“Liam will never train here,” Pops said flatly. “We’re going to lose the gym, Mick.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your last fight,” he said. “Against Clubber Daniels? He was made for you, Mick. Looked scary as hell, had all them iron-pumper muscles. He’d won eight straight, but most of ’em were tomato cans. Watchin’ the film on him, he was just a brawler, with no real skills. I figured he’d punch himself out in the first couple rounds. By the third, you’d own his ass. Put him away in the fifth or sixth.”

“But I tore my shoulder in the third,” I said, shaking my head at the memory.

“And then tried to fight him one-handed.” He nodded grimly. “Got decked twice before the ref stopped it.”

“That was stupid, Pops, I know, but—”

“No. That was Irish heart, Mick. Not smart, maybe, but amazin’ brave. The stupid part is, I bet on you. Bet heavy.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Mick. I bet the freakin’ farm.”

“But... managers can’t bet. It’s illegal—”

“The gym’s been bleeding red for months, son. We needed a payday to tide us over. I knew you’d be earning big soon, and with Jilly coming up, and Liam only a few years behind, we’d be back in clover in no time. But instead of a fat payday...” He shook his head.

“That’s why they call it gambling, Pops,” I said. “How much are we down?”

“Almost ten.”

“Thousand? Sweet Jesus, Pops!”

“I got greedy,” he admitted. “It was my first time crossin’ over to the dark side, and since I knew it was a sure thing—”

“You went big.” I groaned. “Where’d you get the money?”

“I borrowed half from the bank against the gym. The rest I spread around on IOUs. Still owe most of that. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“Seriously? It gets worse?”

“I doubled down, Mick.”

“You... doubled?”

“I bet big on you again, for Friday against Kid Juba. After losing your last fight, then the long layoff? You’re the underdog, Mick, with odds against you three and four to one. We ain’t had a payday since you got hurt, and I knew you could take him—”

“Only I can’t, Pops. Christ, I probably can’t take Jilly.”

He didn’t argue the point. We both knew I was right. He walked away, silver-haired, pudgy, looking every damn minute of his fifty-plus. I stayed on the bench. Where I belonged. I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Mr. Maguire?”

A woman was standing in front of me. Hadn’t seen her come in. Tall, slim. Black slacks, black turtleneck. Boots. Raven-black hair cropped short as a boy’s.

“I’m Bobbie Barlow,” she said, tapping my glove with her small fist. “Ring Scene Fanzine ? Our interview was set for eleven, but I came early. And I’m glad I did.”

Sweet Jesus!

“How long have you been here?” I managed.

“Long enough to catch the drama. What was all that about?”

“Just a sparring session, lady. Boxing practice.”

“I know what sparring is, Mr. Maguire. I also know what a liver shot is. And it looked like your little sister hooked you with one.”

“I wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s because she didn’t have much on it. But it’s a deadly punch. Joe Louis won half his fights with it.”

I stared at her.

“Joe Louis Barrow?” she prompted. “The Brown Bomber? His fist is on display over at Hart Plaza. Twenty-four feet long, eight thousand pounds, cast in bronze? Maybe you’ve seen it.”

I still didn’t say anything. Still trying to shake off the darkness of Jilly’s punch. And the end of my world.

She eyed me a moment, then shrugged. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Maguire. We probably won’t talk again, since you won’t like my story. Irish Mick Maguire almost clocked by his little sister. Would you care to comment?”

I couldn’t think of one. She turned to walk away.

“Wait,” I said. “If you write that, you’ll get me killed.”

She faced me. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you write that my sister caught me with a liver shot and Juba’s people see it? You might as well tattoo a target on me, lady. He’ll break me in half.”

“He’ll probably kill you whether I write it or not. He’s a seasoned fighter, Mick. He’ll pick up on it.”

“He’s been out of the game. Drug problems.”

“Is that what the promoter told you? Juba’s been serving a three-year drug sentence in Joliet, fighting for the prison team. He’s been training hard every damn day, desperate for a comeback. Dropping an Irish Maguire will get him ink and face time on TV. Especially if he’s standing over your dead body.”

I didn’t say anything. This day kept getting better and better.

Barlow was watching me, reading my reaction. Our eyes met and held. She had a strong gaze. Honest. And attractive. I couldn’t help smiling and shaking my head. At her. At the whole damned crazy business.

“You didn’t know about Juba’s prison time, did you?” she said. “You were expecting a tune-up fight?”

“It won’t matter when the bell goes off. Maybe Juba will be in top shape. Maybe he’ll be rusty from fighting second-raters.”

“Second-raters?”

“If they’re in prison, how smart can they be? Either way, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tip him off about... what you think you saw.”

“I know what I saw, Mick. And if there’s a weak point in your defense, Juba will pick up on it.”

“Maybe. If he has enough time.”

“A puncher’s chance? That’s what you’re counting on? You’re hoping to clock him before he can spot the problem?”

“A puncher’s always got a chance, lady. If you stand in there and keep throwing leather, one punch can change the fight, change your luck. Change everything.”

“My dad used to say that. A lot,” she scoffed.

“He was a boxer?”

“A club fighter. Loved the game more than it loved him. He’s in a hospice now, Mr. Maguire. Dementia. From taking your puncher’s chance one time too many.”

“I’m sorry it went that way.”

“It always does. It’s a savage, bloody sport.”

“If you hate it, why write about it?”

“I’m my father’s daughter, I suppose. And there’s an endless fascination to the fight game. With all the corruption, the mismatches, the wheeling and dealing, in the end it comes down to two guys in the ring. Facing off, one-on-one, with the crowd screaming for blood. The last gladiators.”

“But they always have the same chance,” I said. “It’s tough about your dad, but don’t fault a guy for loving the game. And as long as he kept on swinging, he did have a puncher’s chance. The next punch can change your whole life.”

“Wow, you actually believe that, don’t you?”

“Belief’s got nothing to do with it, lady. It’s the flat-ass truth. Hell, you just saw it happen.”

I was back in the gym at first light the next day. Desperate. The flaw Jilly revealed would definitely finish my career, unless I could find a fix for it.

Preferably before I faced Juba in the ring.

I spent hours in front of a full-length mirror, shadowboxing, turning this way and that, studying my form, looking for a solution to my problem.

Not finding one.

Pops came in early too. He circled me slowly as I worked out, watching for the better part of an hour. Neither of us saying a thing. But finally he shook his head.

“There’s no way to compensate, Mick. You can’t drop your elbow low enough. Beyond that point, you start to hunch down—”

“Which leaves me open for an overhand right,” I agreed, “which will drop me even faster than the liver shot. I might as well close my eyes and hope Juba knocks himself out.”

“I’m pulling you, canceling the fight.”

“The hell you are! We need the damn money, Pops, even if it’s only the loser’s share. And it’s not a done deal. We know the problem, but Juba doesn’t. If I can get to him before he spots it, I’ve still got a chance.”

“A puncher’s chance?” Pops snorted. “Guys who count on that get carried out.”

“It’s the only shot we’ve got, Pops. Now quit bugging me, I need to work on this.”

He disappeared into his office, taking my last hope with him. My Pops was an Olympic coach, a brilliant ring general. If there was a solution to my problem, he would have seen it. Since he didn’t...?

I was on my own. With a puncher’s chance.

Assuming Bobbie Barlow didn’t take that small hope away. If she mentioned my problem in her daily blog—

But she didn’t. Her column was totally focused on Jilly, the rising star of the Irish Maguires. She only mentioned my name to plug my bout with Juba. Didn’t mention the sparring match at all.

Which must have been a tough call. It would have been a big scoop to pinpoint the exact moment Irish Mick Maguire’s career ended. And Jilly’s began.

Or so I thought.

The first bout of the Friday Night Fights opened with a bang. Jilly had drawn a UFC cage fighter who was making her big debut in the boxing ring. The cage fighter had a fierce rep, years of fighting experience, a cauliflower ear, and fists the size of country hams.

It didn’t save her.

Jilly exploded out of her corner like she’d been shot from a cannon, taking her rage and frustration out on her opponent, firing off punches in bunches, accurate as sniper fire. The cage fighter covered up, trying to weather the storm. But the barrage just kept coming, numbing her arms, until she could barely defend herself.

Hurricane Carter in his heyday would have had his hands full against Jilly that night.

She had the UFC fighter so clearly outclassed that midway through the second round, after a murderous flurry, Jilly actually dropped her hands and stepped back, glaring daggers at the ref.

“Are you going to stop this slaughter or what?”

The cage fighter used the break to take a wild swing at Jilly’s head, a huge mistake. Jilly answered with a salvo of savage body shots, jamming her opponent into a corner, beating her senseless. The referee finally leapt between them, waving Jilly off, earning a chorus of boos from the crowd.

They were hoping to see a clean knockout, a rare event with female fighters. And they would have gotten one. A few more punches would have sent the cage fighter to dreamland. Or the ER.

Jilly was so deep in the zone she popped the ref three times before she realized he’d stopped the bout. He was an old-time heavyweight, Bozo Grimes. He’d once gone the distance with Foreman, but he winced at the power of Jilly’s punches. I felt sorry for him.

But not for long. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

Bobbie the reporter was right. My tomato-can opponent was anything but. Joliet Prison is one of the toughest gladiator schools in the country. Kid Juba had been training all day, every damn day, fighting for his cherry.

Following Jilly’s example, he came charging across the ring at the bell like Dempsey jumping Willard, firing off blows in a blur, so fast it took every bit of ring craft I owned to fend him off. A few struck home, getting my attention. But the others came on in a steady drumbeat, jab, jab, hook, cross. Jab, jab...

In a set pattern. Predictable.

Juba wasn’t a smart fighter, more like a schoolyard bully who’d picked up some skills. He was throwing too many punches too soon, desperate for an early knockout. It took me less than a minute to pick up on his rhythm. After that we were trading leather for leather in the middle of the ring. The crowd cheered the action, but it was all flash and dazzle, no serious harm done. We were fencing, probing for weaknesses. Seeing what worked, what didn’t.

Juba was short on technique but he had power. I got that message when I slipped a right cross. The punch flashed by like lightning, missing my jaw by an eyelash.

And it definitely widened my eyes.

The sheer force of it sent me a message. Big-time. This stud was dangerous.

Put-your-young-Irish-ass-in-traction-type dangerous.

Fully focused now, I picked up my rhythm in the second round, taking Juba seriously now, taking him to school. Pugilism 101.

I went in low, hammering the ex-con’s rib cage with stiff body shots, sharp punches with serious snap to ’em, dealing out some pain. The barrage forced Juba to drop his guard a few inches, then quickly raise his hands as I finished every flurry with a hard right to the head.

The attacks didn’t do much damage. Juba was blocking most of my shots, probably thought he had me figured. Anticipating that final right, he started lifting his left a little sooner every time. A rookie mistake.

As the round wound down, I suddenly reversed the pattern, firing off a flurry of body shots, then dropped the last punch four inches lower, digging a hook under Juba’s elbow as he raised his guard. The punch drove home like a battering ram, halfway to his spine!

Juba gasped, then quickly backed away, grinning, shaking his head like the punch was nothing. Nothing at all.

But that punch was something.

I charged in, working the same combination again before he could figure it out, delivering a second body shot to the same spot, flatfooted this time, a sledgehammer blow with serious steam on it.

Juba couldn’t clown this one off. Wincing in pain, he backpedaled, dancing away as fast as he could. He stayed up on his toes the last fifteen seconds of the round, then walked stiff-legged back to his corner at the bell. His knees wobbled when he collapsed on his stool.

I nodded in satisfaction. Gotcha! Juba was definitely in the House of Hurt.

“You hooked him good there, Mick.” Pops grinned as I dropped onto my stool, breathing deep with my nostrils flared, sucking down all the air I could hold, inhaling the stink of the ring, the crowd. “How do you feel?”

“I’m good, Pops.” Then I tuned him out, focusing on the ex-con across the ring.

Tall and rangy for a middleweight, Juba had long arms, like Tommy Hearns. Had a honey of a scar on one cheek, gleaming through the Vaseline, giving him a fierce, predatory look.

But beneath the savage mask, I could feel his pain. Juba was keeping his teeth bared in a fierce grin to camouflage it, but his brow was furrowed and he couldn’t quite straighten up on his stool, even when his trainer tugged on his waistband to relax his abdominals.

I knew that agony. I’d drilled him with the same punch Jilly had caught me with earlier in the week. I’d stopped one like it once before, early in my career. The pain was so bad I thought the guy had ruptured my spleen. Somehow I answered the bell, stayed on my feet, but I could barely defend myself. My opponent toyed with me for a round, setting me up. Then dropped me flat in the sixth.

But I couldn’t wait for the sixth. Juba was tough, with real power, and his flashy punches were piling up points. I had to put him away now, before he could shake off his misery. And find the chink in my guard.

Normally Pops would be yelling instructions in my ear. Not on this night. No need. We both knew what had to be done.

“Seconds out!” the timekeeper called, slapping the ring apron with his palm for emphasis.

“You did some damage,” Pops said, rinsing off my mouthpiece, sliding it in as I rose. “He thought he was getting a tune-up fight. So tune his ass up!” Grabbing the stool, the old man hoisted himself through the ropes.

Across the ring, Juba was already dancing in place, angry, hurting, and hungry for payback. And if we started trading body shots?

He’d kill me.

It had to be now. I had to put him on the goddamn deck.

Slamming my gloves together, I sucked in extra air, ready for Freddie.

At the bell Juba came charging out of his corner, firing away like a machine gunner. Pumped up on pain and rage, he was desperately trying to smother my punches, keeping me too busy to land another body shot.

No problem. I let him flail away. I was headhunting now, picking off Juba’s blows, waiting for a puncher’s chance. One clean shot for a knockout. Waiting... waiting... Bobbing, ducking... Knowing it could come any second now—

Suddenly there it was! Juba threw a left hook so hard it carried him around when it missed, out of position, leaving his jaw wide open for a counter!

Perfect!

I threw a hard right, swiveling my hips into the punch, giving it everything I had — but Juba’s desperation-flailing roundhouse landed first, grazing my temple.

Totally focused, I barely felt Juba’s punch. But it had just enough zip on it to make me miss mine. Big-time.

The force of my blow spun me off balance, and as I straightened up, I stumbled over Juba’s left foot, dropping to one knee.

Jesus! What the hell just happened?

I jumped up immediately, more embarrassed than hurt. But the ref was already counting, giving me a standing eight.

“Hey!” I shouted around my mouthpiece. “No knockdown! I freakin’ tripped!”

Across the ring, Juba was dancing in his corner, arms raised in victory, showboating for the crowd. And the fans were eating it up. Screw the fine points of pugilism. Your freakin’ grandma can understand a knockdown. Goddamn it!

“You okay, Maguire?” The ref was peering into my eyes intently.

“Dammit, Bozo, I tripped!” I mumbled around my mouthpiece.

“Answer up, Maguire! Can you continue or not?”

“Hell yes!” I roared, desperate to get back into the fight. “Get out of the way!”

Grabbing my gloves, Bozo wiped them off on his white shirt, then stepped back and waved us on.

I charged into Juba’s corner, but he danced out of reach, grinning, hot-dogging around the ring for the last half minute of the round.

“You’re blowin’ it, Mick,” Pops yelled as I sagged on his stool. “Dammit, I told you—”

I leaned back, closing my eyes, tuning him out. Knowing he was right.

Crap! Decked by a dumb-ass lucky punch. Juba hadn’t laid a glove on me all night. And he wouldn’t have to, now. The knockdown would decide this bout. Pops was ranting at me, practically frothing at the mouth, more frantic than I’d ever seen him—

The ref was leaning over me, checking me out. “You good to go, Maguire?”

“Terrific,” I snapped.

“Glad to hear it,” he said dryly, then trotted back to the center of the ring to wait on the bell. I noticed he didn’t bother asking Juba if he was okay. This fight was over unless I could nail Juba and put him down—

But I couldn’t. The traditional glove touch before the final round was the closest I came to landing a punch.

Juba danced the last rounds away, running for his freakin’ life but looking good doing it. Every time I tried to close with him, he got on his bicycle, firing flurries of flashy, pitty-pat punches with nothing on them, confident he had the fight in the bag.

Which he damn well did.

Bozo cautioned Juba twice about the running, but that didn’t mean squat to the fans. Juba was still showboating at the final bell. Five seconds to confer with the judges and the ref was raising Juba’s hand in victory while the ring announcer bellowed the unanimous decision. There was a smattering of applause, but the crowd was already thinning, headed for the johns and beer booths before the next bout.

“Lucky goddamn punch,” Pops said glumly, cutting the laces off my gloves in the dressing room. “You rocked him good in the second. What the heck happened?”

“I had him hurt, I went for the knockout. I was so paranoid about catching a liver shot—”

“This is all on me,” the old man said. “I should have pulled you.”

“You didn’t make me trip over his damn foot, Pops.”

“I know, but...” He swallowed. “We’ve got more trouble, Mick. Them IOUs I spread around? They’ve been bought up. All of ’em.”

“By who?”

“Tony Dukarski. Used to fight some himself — he’s a promoter now. Do you know him?”

“Tony Duke? He’s not just a promoter, Pops, he’s mobbed up. How much are we down to him? Exactly?”

“The better part of fifteen grand. It might as well be a million. I don’t have it.”

“The loser’s purse is a thousand, but — hold on. Fifteen grand? Dukarski’s in the business. He must know we don’t have that kind of money lying around. Why would he buy up your paper?”

“He’s backing a new fighter, a stud from L.A., Toro Esteban. Bad-lookin’ dude, prison-yard muscles, tattoos, dreadlocks. Big puncher. Killed a Mexican fighter down in Tijuana. They call him Toro the Terminator now.”

“What’s that got to do with us?”

“Toro’s wins are nobodies, Mexicans from Dago or Tijuana. Everybody’s fifty and one down there, no way to confirm their records. I hear Tony Duke’s lookin’ for some... local bouts.”

He looked away, unable to meet my eyes.

“My God,” I groaned. “You mean Dukarski’s lining up mopes his boy can knock down to pump up his win record? Mopes like me, for instance?”

“It don’t matter what he’s doin’,” Pops said. “Bein’ down fifteen to Tony Duke ain’t like owin’ the Bank of Detroit, Mick. We’re in deep shit here. We gotta talk to the man.”

We found Tony “Duke” Dukarski holding court at a third-tier table overlooking the main floor. A dozen people around him, all as drunk as he was, except for his bodyguard, Cheech Gamez, a hawk-faced Latin in a gray silk suit, narrow tie. Cheech was strapped, nickel-silver automatic in a shoulder holster winking from beneath his sport coat. Tony Duke was carrying too, a piece tucked in his waistband. Not really concealed; he clearly wanted folks to see it.

His new fighter wasn’t armed, but didn’t need to be. He was at the end of the table and Pops was right. Even in a slick new sharkskin suit and tie, Toro the Terminator looked bad to the bone, prison-yard muscles straining the seams of his tailored jacket.

Dukarski looked bad too, in the original sense of the word. Big and fleshy, with thinning blond hair, he was clearly on a downhill slide. His cheeks were splotchy from booze, seamed with smile lines from his fixed salesman’s grin. His brows were shiny with scar tissue from his time in the ring, but his fighting days were a while back. Looked like he was carousing himself into an early coronary now, laughing all the way.

“Mr. Dukarski? I got word you wanted to talk to us?”

“Irish Pops Maguire and his star fighter,” Tony Duke said, not bothering to offer his hand. “Hey, everybody, say hello to Irish Mick and his Pops.”

A couple of drunk chicks at the table glanced up. Cleaned up, in a clean white shirt and jeans, I’m saloon-society passable, if you ignore the scars around my eyes and a deep nick in my upper lip, souvenir of a head butt. The girls weren’t interested. They’d just seen me lose.

“Siddown, have a drink,” Tony Duke slurred. “You’ll probably want a shot to go with the one put you on your ass, Mick. Nurse!” he bellowed at a passing waitress, stuffing a ten down her bra. “Scotch all around.”

“I’ll have a beer,” I said, swallowing my anger. I sat opposite Dukarski with Pops beside me. Pops went with the Scotch. A double.

“Have you met the Terminator, Mick?”

Toro offered a sizable paw, but it wasn’t a contest of strength. He shook gently, Spanish style.

“Tough break, trippin’ like that, Irish,” he said. “Your last fight was bad luck too. Your shoulder was screwed in the third. Why didn’t your papa throw the towel?”

“I was ahead on points, tried to go the distance, squeeze out a win.”

“Gutsy, but stupid. I would have busted you up like a wrecking ball. Hit you so hard whole damn family would’ve spit blood for a month.”

I eyed him, but let it pass.

“Want some advice, Irish?” Toro said, leaning forward, his massive mahogany face only inches from mine. “You looked different in the ring tonight. Fought different too. Like you were scared. I think you were. You should back away from the game now, before your brains get scrambled or you get kilt. Maybe I kill you.”

“Maybe you’ll talk me to death,” I said.

“You got a smart mouth, white boy.” Toro grinned, not backing off an inch. “Gonna be some fun bustin’ you up.”

“Hey, hey, let’s not have any fightin’ at the fights,” Tony Duke interrupted, with a bleary grin at his own wit. “Your Pops tells me we got a problem, Maguire—”

“We owe you,” I said, turning to Dukarski. “We understand that. If you want me to fight this gorilla, I’ll do it for free. But I won’t dive, Mr. Dukarski, not for you or anybody else.”

“You ain’t callin’ the shots here, sonny.” Dukarski snorted. “And you ain’t the one I want to talk about anyway. It’s your sister.”

“Then there’s nothing to talk about,” I said, standing up, flushing with fury. “I’m the fighter, Mr. Dukarski—”

“Not from what I seen,” Toro said.

“If you want to try me, bring it!” I flared, whirling on him.

“Dammit, Irish, cool your jets!” Tony Duke snapped, waving me back to my seat. “You Maguires are into me for fifteen, which your old man lost bettin’ on you, Mick. Have you got my money?”

“Not tonight, but—”

“Then it’s a done deal.” Duke leaned back, confident now. “You’re in the toilet, swirlin’ around. I can flush the lot of you down, or we can all get well. A sweet deal, one time. One and done.”

I turned away a moment, fighting down the urge to punch Tony Duke’s lights out. But I knew what would happen to the family if I did.

Out on the arena floor, acres of boozy spectators were cheering or cursing two gladiators in the ring. Fight night, Motown style. Shirtsleeves and summer dresses, not a tuxedo in sight.

Half an hour ago I’d fought an ex-con to entertain these stiffs and got my head handed to me. And now we were deeper in the hole than before.

“What’s on your mind, Mr. Dukarski?” Pops asked.

“Your girl, Jilly? Hasn’t lost a bout since she turned pro. Your family name alone makes her a heavy favorite every fight now, and after seeing her tonight, she’ll be five or six to one to win her next bout. Crazy odds, and that’s the beauty of it. Nobody takes female fighters seriously, they’re strictly for glitz. So losing one bout won’t mean squat to your girl’s career. But at five to one, we could all make a pile. Enough dough to get you off the hook, Pops.”

“Jilly won’t tank,” I said.

“Then you can give her a lesson.” Toro smirked. “Show her how to trip.”

“I hear she’s got a temper,” Dukarski said coldly, his sham friendliness gone. “That’s why I’m talkin’ to you two first. You’re gonna explain the facts of life to her, guys. She drops one lousy fight, we’re all even again.”

“Unless somebody figures it out,” Pops said. “Then we’re all in jail or on the street.”

“I can put you on the street tonight, old man. It ain’t like you got a choice. Which brings us to Irish Mick here.”

“What about me?”

“You got a temper too, Maguire, and I don’t trust hotheads. So you’re gonna fall too. You want Toro, you got him. In six weeks. Same card as your sister. I’m betting you fall in the fourth. Understand?”

“I won’t—”

“Deal,” Pops said.

“What?” I said, whirling on him. “Are you out of your freakin’ mind?”

“The man’s right, Mick,” Pops said, “neither loss will mean much in the long run. With your shoulder, you’re all but done, son. Liam, Sean, and Jilly are the future now. So we’ll do this one thing, one time, to make sure they get their chance.”

“Pops—”

“Mick will fall in the fourth, Mr. Dukarski,” Pops said, turning back to Tony Duke. “But he don’t get hurt. Nobody bleeds, you understand me? Or I’ll feed you that damn gun myself!”

“Relax, Pops, no need for drama.” Dukarski grinned, offering his hand. “We all understand the stakes. Don’t we, Mick?”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Then the man I’ve worshipped my entire life reached out and shook the gangster’s hand.

Done deal.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Pops said. We were in the dressing room collecting my gear.

“How should I look? You sold us out, Pops.”

“I saved the family,” he countered. “Pull on your big-boy pants, Mick. Grow up.”

“To be like you? That’s what I always wanted.”

“I wanted to be heavyweight champ.” He sighed, slapping his belly. “All I ever made was the weight. Maybe Liam will be a champion one day, but first we gotta get ourselves out of this jam.”

“I thought we just did. By selling Jilly out.”

“Get over your snit and start thinkin’, boy. The only true thing Dukarski said back there was about us circlin’ the drain. The rest was a crock. Something’s wrong about the deal.”

“Hell, every damn thing’s wrong with it, Pops! Dukarski’s a hood—”

“Gee, a thug in the fight game? Do tell. He ain’t the first we’ve met. They’re like lice on the biz, and always have been.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. He was right.

“So what are you saying? What’s wrong with the deal?”

“You tell me, dammit! Think, boy. I know we’re missing something, I just don’t know what!”

I mulled that for a moment.

“For openers, it won’t be one and done. We do this once, Dukarski will freakin’ own us.”

“He can’t burn us without burning himself,” Pops pointed out.

“Sure he can. If we get busted for illegal gambling, Dukarski will pay a fine, maybe spend time on the county, and be right back in business. But the Maguires will be done, Pops, barred from the sport forever. It’d be the end of us. You’ll be the Pete Rose of boxing.”

“Maybe I should be, if I’ve brought us to this.”

“Maybe we both should,” I conceded. “But we can’t let our mistakes wreck Liam’s future, or Sean’s. And Jilly’s most of all. We gotta make this right, Pops.”

“We still ain’t seein’ it clear. One thing, though? When Toro talked about killin’ you, he was dead serious. He ain’t a fighter, Mick, he’s a murderin’ son of a bitch. You need to be ready when you fight him.”

“I’m not afraid of him, Pops—” I broke off, considering what I’d just said.

“What is it?”

“Dukarski was sweating,” I said. “Did you notice?”

“He seemed jumpy,” Pops acknowledged. “So?”

“So the man was strapped, so was Cheech, and the Terminator kills people with his fists.”

“I don’t—?”

“We were in a public place — he had a gun and two bodyguards. Why the hell would he be nervous? What was he afraid of?”

We both mulled that one over but came up empty.

Pops left to collect our purses, a winner’s share for Jilly, loser’s for me.

I was zipping up my gym bag when Bobbie Barlow rapped once and stepped in. Dressed casually in jeans and a Detroit Tigers baseball jacket, she still managed to look classy.

“Hey, Maguire. Tough luck tonight.”

“Puncher’s luck.” I shrugged. “Didn’t go my way tonight. I’m glad you came by, though. I wanted to thank you for not writing about that sparring business.”

“I wrote the important part. Jilly’s going to be a star.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m a sportswriter, Mick; obituaries are a different department. It would have been a false alarm anyway. You owned that mope until he tripped you.”

“It was my fault, actually. I stumbled over his foot. But anyway, I owe you one. Buy you dinner?”

“I never date my stories, Mick.”

“I’m not a story anymore, lady. I’m yesterday’s news.”

“Not to me. I came by right after the fight, but you were already gone. So I went looking for you and there you were, making nice with Tony Duke. And the Terminator.”

“We were doing a deal,” I said simply. “I signed to fight Toro in six weeks.”

“With your shoulder messed up? Are you out of your mind?”

“It’s what I do, Barlow.”

“But cutting a deal with a sleaze like Dukarski—”

“The family needs the money. Simple as that.”

“No, it’s not. Toro killed another fighter—”

“In Mexico. I know. But—”

“My point is, that’s all he’s done. Toro’s a nobody, Mick, and you’re coming to the end of your career. Even if you beat him, it won’t fatten your purses or build your image—” She broke off, staring at me.

“But it’ll build his image,” she went on. “When he beats you.”

“You mean if he beats me.”

“I don’t think so. When promoters cut a deal, both sides look for an edge, but in the end, no matter how they finagle it, it comes down to the fighters. Two guys squaring off in the ring. But it only takes one to fix a fight. Is that what I saw, Mick?”

I didn’t say anything to that. Which was an answer, of sorts.

“You owe me, Maguire. You just said so.”

“I don’t want to lie to you, Bobbie.”

“Well, that’s something, at least. Forget dinner, but I’ll toss you a bone for free. If Dukarski promised you a payoff? You won’t see it. He doesn’t have it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Duke bet the wrong way on the last Mayweather fight, and borrowed big to do it. He’s down fifty Gs to Fat Jack Cassidy, a loan shark out of Warsaw Heights. And people who can’t pay Fat Jack tend to disappear. One way or the other.”

“Where’d you hear this?”

“Sorry, Maguire, one freebie’s all you get,” she said, shaking her head. “And you still owe me a story.”

“I’d rather buy you dinner.”

“I’ll settle for the truth,” she said from the doorway. “If you ever remember what it is.”

“Duke’s in the hole to Fat Jack Cassidy?” Pops mused when I told him. “No wonder he’s worried. He damn well should be. He’s in deeper trouble than we are. How much did she say?”

“Fifty thousand. Which is a huge problem. For us.”

We were in the gym office, Pops behind his desk, watching something on his computer, me in a chair facing him. The walls around us were lined with dozens of photos and trophies, the bloody plunder won over three generations of war in the ring. Barely worth a few hundred bucks to a collector.

Worth everything to a Maguire.

“Which part is the problem?” Pops asked, still frowning at his computer screen, his face blue in the reflected light.

“The fifty Gs,” I said. “Duke can’t lay a bet anywhere near that against Jilly. A wager that big on a girl fighter would raise too many red flags.”

“You’re right.” Pops nodded without looking up. “Even if he spreads it around, winning more than ten, fifteen grand on an upset would draw the gaming commission like crows to roadkill. But the fifteen might be enough to keep Fat Jack Cassidy from capping him while he waited for the real payoff.”

“What payoff?”

“Take a look at this,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”

“What is it?”

“Fight film, from Mexico. Toro Esteban versus Momo Benitez. It wasn’t easy to come by. There are laws against snuff films.”

“Benitez is the fighter Toro killed?”

“Take a look,” Pops repeated. “What do you see?”

There was no sound, and the film was grainy, an overhead-view shot from a cheap-ass videocam suspended above the ring.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Toro came out of his corner cautiously, feeling out Benitez. His opponent looked sloppy to me. I spotted a half-dozen openings that Toro missed.

They wasted the first round feeling each other out, but halfway through the second, Toro suddenly picked it up, firing off a dozen hard body shots that clearly hurt Benitez...

“Watch this,” Pops said, leaning in.

In his corner, between rounds, Benitez and his manager were arguing. But in Spanish and without sound? I had no idea what the beef was.

Third round, Toro jacked up the action again, a full-body attack. Benitez had no counter for it; he kept taking the punches, clearly hurt, until Toro caught him with a low blow, then laid him out with a hammer strike to the temple. Benitez hit the deck, didn’t move. The screen went dark.

I stared at the blankness.

Staring at death, I suppose.

“What did you see?” Pops pressed, his eyes intense.

I considered that a moment.

“The body attack,” I said. “Benitez wasn’t expecting it. Is that what he was arguing with his manager about?”

“I think so. The question is, why didn’t he expect it? Toro’s a body-puncher, they must have known that. So why were they surprised?”

It took a moment for the answer to register. And when it did, I went utterly still. Realizing what I’d just seen.

“It wasn’t a fight,” I said slowly. “It was murder.”

“Benitez was set up,” Pops agreed. “I think he was fixed to fall in the fourth. So when Toro came at him full on in the second, it caught him by surprise. He wasn’t ready to fight, or defend himself properly. He thought he was going to dance a few rounds, then drop.”

“Instead, Toro used him for a punching bag, knowing he wouldn’t fight back,” I finished. “The poor bastard had no chance at all.”

“Still, they couldn’t have known they’d kill him,” Pops mused.

“Probably not. They double-crossed him, figuring to end his career, put him in traction. His death was a bonus.”

“Toro’s whole reputation, the ‘Terminator’ business, began with that fight,” Pops said. “Before Benitez, Toro was just another pug. And even the killing didn’t make him a headliner, because Benitez was a nobody, and it happened in Mexico.”

“But if he kills a second fighter? Say an Irish Maguire, in Detroit? Dukarski will be minting money off this guy.”

“Jilly diving is only a smokescreen,” Pops agreed. “To get you into the ring with your guard down. So Toro can make his name by stomping you into dog meat.”

“Or killing me. If he can.”

“We’ve got to go to the law, Mick.”

“To say what? Toro killed Benitez? Hell, everybody knows that. He’s proud of it. And if we admit we’re mixed up in a fix with Dukarski, we’ll be flat broke, barred from boxing forever, while he waltzes away without a scratch. The law can’t help us here, Pops. We have to settle this on our own.”

“How?”

“We do what we’ve always done. We’re Irish Maguires. We come up with a plan, then step in the ring and swing away.”

There’s a famous quote from former heavyweight champ Joe Frazier. My Pops has it painted on a banner that hangs over our training ring:

We took Smokin’ Joe’s advice, kept our fight plan as simple as possible. First we brought Jilly up to speed on the fix. Pops told her she was supposed to lose, and why.

“Duke needs to make two things happen,” Pops explained. “He bets heavy that you lose and makes enough to hold off the loan sharks. Then Toro beats Mick real bad, maybe to death? And Duke gets himself a big earner for the long run.”

“That’s his plan.” Jilly nodded grimly. “What’s ours, Pops?”

“The exact opposite,” Pops said flatly. “You win your bout and bankrupt that son of a bitch. Then Mick calls in the ring doctor, admits his shoulder’s injured, and cancels out. And Toro stays a nobody who can’t make Duke a nickel.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jilly nodded, frowning, mulling it over.

“And?” Pops asked.

She glanced up with the feral flare of combat in her eyes. “I like my part of it just fine.” She grinned. “Who do I have to beat?”

“A Russian called Olga the Borg,” Pops said warily. “A cage fighter out of Duke’s stable. She’s tough and tall, a lot taller than you, with a longer reach. And she’ll definitely be in it to win it. Duke won’t tell her nothing about the fix.”

“What fix is that?” Jilly asked, all innocence.

“Exactly right.” Pops nodded. “Ain’t no fix, girl, not anymore. Just make damn sure you win!”

That was our fight plan. And we trained hard for it, Jilly to win, me to look like I was serious about a fight Pops would cancel at the last minute.

It was a good plan. Until the night of the fight. When it all went south.

I was alone in my dressing room, sitting on the massage table. Jilly’s fight was being announced and I was waiting for the ring doctor so I could cancel mine.

The door burst open and Pops charged in, his eyes wild.

“What the hell?” I demanded, jumping to my feet. “Why aren’t you in the ring with Jilly?”

“Dukarski,” he said. “He sent a limo for Liam and Sean. They’re sitting at ringside between him and Gamez. Gamez is strapped and Duke is too.”

“Jesus! Did he threaten them?”

“He don’t have to! The message is plain. The boys don’t know nothing. Hell, they’re happy as clams to have front-row seats.”

“What about Jilly?”

“She ain’t said nothing either, but she can see what Duke expects her to do. Them boys are there as insurance to keep her in line.”

“Then it’s gotta be on Jilly,” I said flatly. “She’s the one in the bright lights tonight, Pops. Whatever she decides, we back her up. Now get back out there, look after her.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Wait, for now. If I go after them like this, they’ll see me coming a mile away. Get out there and follow Jilly’s lead, whatever it is.”

Pops hurried back through the crowd to the ring. Standing in that doorway, watching him go, was harder than any fight I’ve ever been in. All we had going was Smokin’ Joe’s advice.

The action had started, it wasn’t going the way we planned, and our only hope was to trust Jilly. She was the one in the ring under the lights. It was her call to make.

And I had no idea what it would be.

But subtlety ain’t Jilly’s style. She didn’t keep me waitin’.

She was dancing in place, glaring up at the Russian all the way through the ring announcements. Ready for Freddie. Her opponent was big and battle-scarred from the cages, looked like she ate lions for lunch. Experienced and sure of herself, she glared back at Jilly with open contempt.

An expression she didn’t wear for long.

At the bell, Jilly came rocketing across the ring like a cruise missile, trapping the Russian coming out of her corner. Facing a much shorter fighter, Olga thought she could fend Jilly off, keep her at bay, out of reach.

It was like trying to hold back a hurricane with a parasol. Jilly’s punches just kept raining in furiously from all directions, nonstop. And I felt my heart drop.

Jilly was going all-in in the first minute, gambling everything on this round. It was an impossible pace to maintain. If her strategy failed, Jilly’d be totally burned out by the second — but it didn’t fail.

Trying to duck away from the rain of punches, the Russian caught a right cross flush on the jaw. Rocked by the blow, she lunged desperately at Jilly, trying to wrap her up into a clinch.

But she didn’t make it.

Her arms closed on air as Jilly danced back a step, just out of reach. Then charged back in firing off a half-dozen straight shots that caught the Borg off-balance and out of position, driving the Russian to her knees.

Waving Jilly to a neutral corner, the ref began his count: one... two...

Before he could say three, Olga’s eyes rolled up and she toppled. Wrapping a protective arm around her, the ref took a quick look into the Borg’s vacant stare, then waved Jilly off, stopping the bout!

The crowd exploded with cheers and applause, galvanized by the explosive action that ended with a first-round knockout. By a girl? Freaking amazing!

Jilly was even more excited than the spectators, bouncing around the ring like a dervish, pumping her fists in the air, celebrating...

Which was totally out of character. Irish Maguires don’t celebrate. We’re all business, all the time.

But not this time.

Jilly was over the moon!

And then she was over the ropes.

Scrambling up the ring post, she pumped her fists, saluting the fans, bringing the audience to its feet with a deafening roar. Then she leapt into the crowd!

Dropping onto the ring apron, she launched herself into the ringside seats, catching Dukarski totally by surprise as he lurched to his feet.

Slamming into Big Duke chest high, Jilly’s tackle carried him backward into the next tier, though I doubt Dukarski had any idea where he was at that point. She was hammering him the whole time, with the same furious barrage of punches that had demolished the Borg. Dukarski was lights-out before he hit the floor.

Gamez was apparently smarter than he looked. Seeing his boss laid out on the deck, the gunsel immediately backed away from Jilly and the boys with his hands raised, then turned and fled up the aisle, running like a scalded dog.

The place dissolved into pandemonium as security guards charged into the crush, trying to wrestle Jilly off Tony Duke. It took them a while. The fans fought for her, pushing them back, defending their new princess.

But chaos at a fight isn’t unusual. Order was quickly being restored. And I was on next.

Stepping back into my dressing room, I did a few quick pushups to get my heart pumping, then faced the mirror.

It was definitely time to call for the ring doctor.

But I didn’t.

I started to dance instead. Tuning up, getting my mind right.

Getting ready for Toro.

Pops found me there a few minutes later, shadowboxing.

“What the hell are you doing? Where’s the doc?”

I just shook my head and kept on punching.

“Dammit, Mick, you don’t have to do this! We’re off the hook now.”

“It’s got nothing to do with the fix, Pops. However it goes, this is probably my last night. We both know that. Dukarski and Toro are poster boys for everything that’s wrong with this sport. Jilly took care of the one, now I’m going to settle with the other. I owe it to the game, and to that poor bastard they killed in Mexico.”

“But—”

“I owe it to myself, Pops! If it’s my last shot, I want to take it. There’s no time to argue about it. I’m going on. Get me ready.”

And he did. When a gofer came to call us to the ring, he found the Irish Maguires throwing leather as hard and fast as we could, both of us grinning like feral dogs.

I was halfway down the arena aisle when the ring announcer roared out my name. I got a huge ovation that had more to do with the show Jilly’d just put on than my own record.

It didn’t matter. I wasn’t fighting for the crowd.

I was here for the guy across the ring, dancing in his corner, his face hidden by his black silk cowl. My emerald-green trunks seemed boyish as the ref called us to the center.

Neither of us heard a word he said. We both stood like stone statues, staring each other down. When the ref told us to touch ’em up, neither of us even offered. He asked again, then shook his head and sent us to our corners.

Across the ring, Toro was snarling as he slammed his fists together. Pumping himself up, his eyes locked on mine. He knew the fix was off. Knew it the moment Jilly won her prelim. Knew I’d fight him now. Straight up.

He didn’t care.

Neither did I.

Because Bobbie was right. In the end, it comes down to the fighters in the ring, matched fairly or mishandled, with the crowd screaming for blood.

With my shoulder lamed up, I knew I had no real chance against Toro.

Except the one.

A puncher’s chance. The same chance Bobbie’s father took one time too many.

The same chance we all get, every single day.

We choose to keep punching or not. To speak up or keep silent, stand our ground or step off. To tell someone we care for them. Or not.

And as long as you keep punching, one split second can change a fight. Change your luck.

Change your life.

Every fighter believes that.

Because we have to.

And because it’s the flat-ass truth.