Daly snapped the
wicked jab that had made him both famous and feared. It was the weapon that had held so many
others at bay. Damned if Bartoni didn’t
walk right through it. And the sonuvabitch
was smiling.
The kid was
tough. Slow, but tough. He walked in constantly, had little to no
lateral movement and barely any defense to speak of. But he could take a punch.
Daly had landed the 1-1-4-8 in the
third. He’ knocked out Carter and Taylor
and Hess and Vincent with less. Bartoni
hadn’t even staggered after the combination.
He was starting
to gas. He’d thrown nearly nonstop for
six rounds, but Bartoni still looked fresh as a daisy, like he was biding his
time. He had no skill, but he had heart.
It was almost as if he were destined to win.
But they both
knew that was not the case.
They’d gone over
it in Granziano’s uptown office yesterday.
Middle of the seventh, Bartoni would throw a wild right haymaker. Daly would slip it, counter with the 6—the
right hook to the body—and turn him, backing him into the corner. Bartoni would drop his hands just enough to
make it look like he was hurt; just enough to let Daly to fire the cross and
finish with the uppercut.
Bartoni would
take the count and drop a few ranks, but he’d make an additional thousand above
purse. Daly would be assured of a title
shot at Konstantinov. Within six months, he’d have an opportunity to
become the heavyweight champion of the world.
Fame, money, dames—it was everything he’d worked for, for nine long
years.
But first, he
needed to get through the seventh, and make it convincing. Most of that depended on Bartoni. He had to hand it to him; so far, the kid had
put on one hell of a show. He hoped he
could act as well as ate leather.
He popped
Bartoni with another jab as he bell rang.
There was light swelling over his left eye. About time, Daly thought as Max drug the rickety
stool in through the ropes. His cut man
was there before his butt was on the seat, but there was no damage to
repair. The kid had popped him good a
handful of times, but he was sticking to the script.
“Alright, this
is it, Jimmy,” veteran corner man “Magic” Max Conner, assured his fighter. “’Just like we planned it. Wait for the big one, then go to work,” he
said, tipping the water to Daly’s lips.
“And don’t worry about him making it look good. Hit that sonuvabitch so hard there’s no doubt
about it,” Conner instructed his fighter.
Daly shook his head in recognition; it was easier than formulating
speech at this point. He cracked his jaw
wide enough to allow Conner reinsert his newly-rinsed mouthpiece, clinched it
tightly, and took a deep breath. He
stood as the bell sounded.
Here we go.
Daly led, naturally, with the jab. Bartoni weaved right. Daly fired it again. Bartoni pulled his glove high, parrying it
and countered with a punch of his own.
But it was no jab. It was a
straight right that crashed through Daly’s nose. His head snapped back, eyes and nose
instantly leaking in unison.
Daly circled
left, taking an extra step backward to regain a portion of equilibrium. He swiped tears with the back of his glove
and reset, sending a lead right toward the brash youngster. It was heavy, a solid punch that would prove
quite unhealthy for an opponent on the receiving end. He needed to reassure this upstart of his prowess.
He needed Bartoni
to know that he didn’t need him to
take the fall. He’d tried to convince
Granziano of that, but he old man insisted it was for the best, all the way
around. Conner had convinced Daly to
abide Granziano; crossing him would be much dangerous than going toe to toe
with Bartoni in an up and up brawl.
But Daly’s punch missed. Understandably so. He had been aiming for the fat, slow kid who
had plodded through the first six rounds.
That kid was
gone.
He had been replaced by a lightning-like,
slippery bumblebee that flitted and danced away from trouble and dealt
retribution with bruising vengeance.
Before Daly could chamber his right, Bartoni crouched and sprang up,
unleashing a sledgehammer uppercut that rattled the favorite’s teeth, despite
the leathery armor of his mouth guard. An
unseen left hook followed, catapulting the rigid bit from Daly’s mouth.
Daly wobbled,
his feet tangling under him as he tried to backpedal. Confused, he instinctively pulled his gloves
high trying to protect his head from another blow. Bartoni was definitely off script now. He wasn’t trying to make the fight exciting. He was trying to win.
When he saw Daly
guard high, Bartoni dropped levels, peppering him with a pair of right and left
hooks. True to form, Daly dropped his guard,
but not before flinging a jab at Bartoni’s exposed head to try to create some
distance for an escape. Bartoni’s
onslaught had Daly of his wind. The jab
that he had invested all his championship hopes and dreams upon had
wilted. It barely made Bartoni
blink.
Bartoni popped
out a jab of his own, sending Daly’s vision skyward. The blinding lights swirled there, quickly
going hazy. Luckily, they stole his
attention long enough to prevent him from having to see the massive overhand
right heading for his cheek.
In his
ascendancy toward a title shot, he’d read reporters’ descriptions of his
fights. They’d sometimes used words like
freight train or cannonball to describe his knockout blows. He’d sometimes wondered what it must be like
for the other guy to be on the receiving end of that kind of punch. Within fifteen seconds of the seventh round,
he got a first-hand taste of that what they must have experienced.
He’d never been
acutely aware of the mechanics of the human jaw; he didn’t think about it
really. It opened to speak, closed to
swallow, bounced up and down to chew. It
operated on the most basic of anatomical hinge systems, only working in two
directions—up and down. But the sheer
force of Bartoni’s punch had rewritten the physics of Daly’s jaw function,
pushing the mandible so far sideways that Daly could have eaten an entire ear
of corn without ever sliding it back and forth across his lips. Ironic, considering that attempts to ingest
anything other than liquids over the next six weeks would likely prove
disastrous.
Daly never saw
the canvas rushing up to catch him.
Perhaps mercifully, he never felt it either. He crumpled into a heap, landing just inches
from his own corner. Bartoni backed away
as the ref delivered the count. He
lounged in the neutral corner, his arms outstretched on the top rope. Confident of his eminent victory, he scanned
the audibly astonished crowd. Two rows
back, behind the scribbling news hacks and the fancy fat cats, he spotted
him. Fat Anthony Granziano. It looked like there was only half a cigar in
his mouth. Bartoni was pretty sure he’d
chewed through the remainder while watching the last round.
The mobster’s
stare almost made him wish he could trade places with Daly.
Almost.
***
The tape was
always a bitch to get off. Gus taped
tighter than most trainers; swore it made for a more solid impact. Bartoni couldn’t argue, especially based upon
tonight’s performance. He winced when
Gus snagged his skin with the scissors, struggling against the sturdy
adhesive. He thankfully finished cutting
the final few strands when the locker room door slammed open.
Anthony
Graziano’s abdomen entered the room prior to the remainder of his bulk. The buttons of his black suit struggled. He removed his tando once completely inside,
revealing oily, equally dark locks. Two
bruisers followed in toe.
The fat man
scrawled erratic hand motions through the air, motioning back and forth between
the fighter and his goons. Bartoni
watched, perplexed. After a few moments,
he interrupted.
“Anthony, what
the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Oh my God!,”
the mobster exclaimed, stopping his gestures in mid-stroke. “He can speak! That means he can hear!” he said, throwing
his hands skyward. “It’s a miracle!”
Bartoni grinned,
sliding off of the trainer’s table. “I
get it, I cost you money,” Bartoni said, bundling his robe and tossing it to
Gus.
“Damn right you
did!” Granziano boomed. His olive complexion immediately reddened with the
outburst. “More importantly, you broke our deal. You gave me your word, and you didn’t hold up
your end. Most people who even think
about doing that to me don’t ever walk again afterwards.”
The fighter sat,
unlacing his boots. “Good thing I ain’t
most people there, Uncle Anthony,” Bartoni replied.
Fat Uncle
Anthony sat on the bench beside his nephew.
He paused intently and allowed his blood pressure to equalize. “No, Paulie, you are definitely not most
people. And God help you, if you weren’t
Mary’s baby boy, I would’ve sicced Vinnie and Angelo here on ya’ already.”
“Look Anthony,
we both know I’m better than Daly. I
couldn’t flop for him. I know he was your stud but I deserve that
title shot,” Bartoni said.
“Screw Daly; I
could care less about that Irish bastard.
Mooks like him are a dime a dozen.
This is about you. You do deserve
a title shot, but it can’t come against Konstantinov.”
“What are you
saying Anthony? Why not? I mean if it’s about the dough, I mean forget
it. I don’t need a payout. I’ll fight for free. I just want a shot—”
“It’ ain’t about
the frickin’ money!” Anthony yelled.
Again, he paused, toweling his brow with the handkerchief from his
pocket.
“It’s about you, okay? Look you’re a good kid. You fight hard and you got heart. But you’re not ready for that Ruskie. He’s a killer, Paulie. When we picked him up, he’d just gotten out
of a gulag. You know what that is? It’s the Commie labor camp prison system
where they work you ‘till you die. They
don’t bother wasting bullets on you, they just let you starve to death but they
make sure they get their use out of you before you keel over.
“No matter what
they threw at Konstantinov, he survived.
Killing him would have made them look soft. So they created this bogus story that they
relocated him to another camp. Truth is,
they just turned him loose. Somewhere
along the line, he hooked up with that crazy-ass doctor that manages him and
wound up stateside. He doesn’t even have
a regular trainer like a normal fighter, just that kooky nutbag doctor of his.
“He was fighting
out in Detroit when we first found him.
Signed him on the spot and six fights later, he laid Turner out cold in
the second to win the title. Undefeated
in six more since. I’ve seen headhunters
before, but this guy’s an animal. God
help me, Paulie; you’re my own flesh and blood.
I can’t send you in there with him,” Anthony finished.
Gus spoke
up. “With all due respect, Mr.
Granziano, you have to,” he said. “Paulie
won tonight and the winner was guaranteed
a title shot. You go back on that and
every two-bit newsman in the country is gonna’ call you out. You won’t be able to sign a kindergarten
playground scrap afterwards.”
“You’re a smart
man, Gus,”” Granziano agreed. “That’s why I wanted this knucklehead to take the
dive, ‘cause now he’s practically ruining my business,” he said.
“But you’re
assuming he’ll lose. The kid’s tough,
you said so yourself, Mr. G. Give him
the shot, and give us two months and he might surprise ya’,” Gus said.
“Two
months? I could give you two years and
it wouldn’t help,” Granziano said.
“Then what does
it matter? One way or another you figure
I’m gonna’ lose. So let me have the
shot. Look if I lose, I lose. I just want a chance. Hell, if he starts beating me too bad, I’ll
take a dive,” Bartoni pled.
“You proved
tonight you didn’t know how to take one,” Granziano fired back.
“That’s because
I didn’t need to,” Bartoni countered. “Come
on, Uncle Tony. I’m begging you. Give me the shot.”
The fat man
shook his head, realizing that like Daly only minutes before, he’d been
cornered by the younger man. “Christ,
Mary will never forgive me if he kills you,” he said.
***
“Geeze Gus, any
tighter and my fingers are gonna’ fall off.”
“Then club his
skull in with your stump,” Gus instructed, never looking up as he continued
taping. “You’ll thank me afterward,
Paulie. He hits harder; you’ve got to
hit harder. The trouble is he’s
stronger. ‘Tighter we can get your
hands, the more ground we can make up,” Gus said.
Bartoni’s
training camp had passed like a whirlwind.
He had trained non-stop for eight weeks.
Road work, bag work, rope skipping—the only down time came with sleep. When he wasn’t working he was resting, doing
his best to let his body recover from the punishment.
He’d wanted to
bulk to even the scales against the bigger champion. Gus objected.
There wasn’t enough time to put on quality muscle, he said. Instead, he whittled Paulie, sacrificing
weight for speed. By fight night, Paulie had cut more than
fifteen pounds. Faster hands meant more
punches and potentially, more power. And
if Paulie couldn’t knock Konstantinov out, maybe he could outpoint him—if he
could weather the Russian’s onslaught.
Gus did his best
to keep Paulie away from the papers. No
need; had already accepted his role as the underdog. Gus’s overprotection was unwarranted. No reporter in the country was writing about
the fight; as far as they were concerned, there was no contest of which to
speak.
Details of
Konstantinov’s camp had been cagey, as always.
Press was banned, per edict of Dr. Alexander, just as it had been since
the Russian’s debut in Detroit. No
sportswriter in the country had ever seen Konstantinov train—none of them even
knew where to find him. Supposedly, he held
camp at a clandestine facility somewhere in the Ozarks. He was rumored to fly in a constantly
revolving stream of sparring partners.
Former champion Lucius Evans was brought in to prep Konstantinov for his
first title defense. According to
legend, Evans quit the camp after three weeks, claiming he’d never absorbed as
much punishment in his twenty-year career as he had in less than a month of
training with Konstantinov. Following
his return from the camp, Evans allegedly never again laced his gloves.
"He’s tough as
nails, so you’ve got to hit him with everything you’ve got every time, you
understand?”
Paulie shook his
head, signaling his comprehension. The
dim locker room lamplight glinted off the sheen of perspiration on Bartoni’s
forehead.
“Do you think I
can beat him Gus?”
“Kid, it doesn’t
matter what I think,” the corner man said.
He wound the tape around for a final pass, tearing it off just below his
fighter’s wrist. “The only thing that
matters is what you think. I ain’t
gonna’ blow smoke up your ass, it ain’t gonna’ be easy. But it can be done. Fight your fight; be smart. Don’t get suckered into going toe to
toe. Stay off the ropes. And whatever the hell you do, don’t give up.”
“Now,” Gus said,
reaching for his focusing mitts. “Show
me you’re ready for this Commie sumbitch.”
***
Paulie didn’t
hear a word the referee was saying. He
couldn’t even hear the cheers of the capacity crowd. That’s because of the resounding voice in his
head reminding him of how ridiculous they must look. Standing face to face in the center of the
ring, the Russian dwarfed him. Paulie
was certain that spectators seated behind Konstantinov had no idea whether he
had even made it into the ring yet. The
man was so massive, Paulie almost missed the squirrely Dr. Alexander. He stood mere inches behind his champion,
Konstantinov’s satin robe draped over his arm.
As the referee
explained the rules, Paulie kept his eyes on Konstantivov’s face. There was nothing there. It was as if the man was half a world away,
maybe back in the prison that had been his home for years. He showed no hint of nerves or emotion. He simply stared with empty eyes through his
challenger.
Paulie returned
to the security of his corner once the instructions were done, catching the
sparkle of his uncle’s cufflinks in the front row. Fat Anthony was characteristically dressed to
the nines, the coppery points of his lapel pressed as sharply as ever. But as their eyes met, Paulie noticed an
emotion he’d never seen on the gangster: fear.
“Alright, listen
up,” Gus commanded, leading Paulie to the turnbuckle. “Don’t forget the game plan. Stick and move. Pace yourself. Let
him wear himself out. Carry him into
deep water and turn it on in the later rounds.
Be smart,” he reminded once more.
Paulie nodded,
bit down on his mouthpiece and slapped his thin leather gloves together. He turned to look at Fat Anthony.
He was crossing
himself.
The Russian
strode out slowly at the sound of the bell, as if he had all day to dispose of
the smaller man. Paulie held his gloves
high, staying on the balls of his feet.
He circled left, firing off two quick jabs. They landed on the Russian’s chin. The champion didn’t flinch. Paulie immediately slipped the opposite way,
sending another jab over the Russian’s brazenly low-lying guard that connected
flush, albeit impotently. Feinting left,
Paulie winged a blistering right hook into Konstantinov’s jaw. It made the one he’d KO’d Daly with look
tame.
He would have
done just as well slugging the Russian with a throw pillow.
Konstantinov
didn’t budge. Paulie drew his punch back
quickly, wishing that he’d let Gus tape his hand tighter. He didn’t want to feel his fingers
anymore. He was pretty sure if he turned
his glove upside down, he could pour them out, powdery onto the canvas.
He tried to
shake the sting out of his hand, backpedaling instinctively. Straight backward. Mistake.
No lateral movement left him an easy target.
Konstantinov
threw a huge left over Paulie’s quivering guard.
It was obvious, but hard to avoid.
Paulie rolled with it. It saved
him from being the quickest knockout of Konstantinov’s career—and his first
official decapitation.
Paulie
stumbled. He lost sight of
Konstantinov. The ropes, the crowd, the
mat—they all flashed in front of him.
But he didn’t go down.
He righted
himself just in time to see Konstantinov’s follow-up. Smelling blood, the charging champion shifted
his lead foot inside Paulie’s, corkscrewing down to deliver a left hook to the
body. Paulie crouched, painfully
blocking the blow with his elbow. He
popped Konstantinov with a body shot of his own—not nearly as powerful, but
stiff enough to thwart the advance. He
turned, peppering a jab to the champ’s chin on the escape.
Undaunted,
Konstantinov pressed. He jabbed. Paulie caught most of it on his gloves, but
enough got through to snap his head back.
A left body hook, right cross combination followed. Again, Paulie blocked the hook, but ate the
full leather of the cross. The punch
sent him reeling into the ropes.
“Get outta’ there
dammit!,” Paulie heard Gus scream. It
sounded like he was screaming under water.
Konstantinov
flurried, winging haymakers. Paulie bobbed, taking the brunt, mercifully,
on his shoulders. Panicked, he tangled
his arms under the Russian’s, clinching the bigger man. He held on for all he was worth. The ref commanded them to break just as the
bell sounded.
Paulie shuffled toward his corner. It felt like it took a life time to get
there.
Gus was waiting
on him, guiding him to the stool.
“Way to stay on
your feet,” Gus encouraged, snatching Paulie’s mouthpiece. “Another three rounds like that and you’ll
wear his knuckles out,” he said, giving his fighter a brief sip of water.
“I think he’s
already ahead there too. He’s got a
concrete jaw,” Paulie said, between labored breaths.
“That’s why
we’re gonna’ attack the body this time.
Soften up his ribs,” Gus said, shadowing punches to Paulie’s gut to
illustrate.
“Don’t let him square
up. You’ve got to beat him to the
punch. If you see his hip square to you,
you’re too late. Get off before he
throws, then get the hell outta’ there,” Gus said, replacing the mouthpiece.
Paulie had
hardly gotten off the stool when the bell sounded; Konstantinov had already crossed his half of
the ring. He was starting the second
much more rapidly.
Paulie got his
hands up quickly, turning away from a lead right. He kept bobbing side to side, making
Konstantinov miss. Turning, he scored
with a straight left, right hook combo to the Russian’s body. It must have been made out of the same stuff
as his head, Paulie thought, bouncing
away before he could be countered.
Circling, Paulie
threw a head-high feint, then dove in for another one-two to Konstantinov’s
ribs. Paulie had put some mustard on the
shots, but the champ was not impressed.
He kept coming straight forward. Paulie
tapped twice, up and down keep away jabs, and turned again.
He realized his
mistake when he felt the ropes against his back. He’d been so focused on scoring that he’d
overlooked Konstantinov’s ploy. He’d
distracted Paulie by letting him land; slowly, deliberately cutting off the
ring in the process.
Paulie felt the
punch in his spine. As if to demonstrate
what a true body shot should feel like, Konstantinov had planted a left
uppercut so violently into Paulie’s midsection that it lifted the challenger’s
feet.
As Paulie began
to fold, he clutched Konstantinov, tying him up. He regained his wind quickly and skirted off
the ropes on the break. Learning from
his first round mistake, he retreated at an angle. Konstantinov smelled blood, rushing toward
him. Seeing an opening, Paulie threw
caution to the wind. He swept an arcing
hook into Konstantinov’s exposed nose.
Thankfully, it seemed to be less dense than the head it called home. For a split second, it seemed to give the
champion pause—and hope to Paulie.
It was
short-lived.
Konstantinov shook
off the shot and strafed left. Moving
with an unexpected speed that belied his bulk, the Russian struck back with a
vengeance. It was another body shot. It tore into Paulie’s breadbasket. He winced and covered up, trying to get out
of reach. Konstantinov swung again. Paulie
got his gloves up, but the punch still rattled him. A split second later, he felt his chin shake
all the way into the top of his skull as the uppercut rocked I into
numbness. He heard a bell, but wasn’t
sure if it came from ringside or his cerebellum. When the ref stepped between them, he got his
answer.
Paulie found his
corner by following the sound of Gus’s screams.
He crashed blindly onto the stool.
As Gus splashed water on him, his vision began to clear. He looked past Gus at the opposing
corner. Konstantinov looked as fresh as
if he’d just stepped from the locker room shower. Paulie was surprised he didn’t see bits of
his own brains and guts on the champion’s gloves.
Gus was shouting
at him; Paulie was aware of that much.
The exact details of the corner man’s tirade, however, were
undecipherable. He was pretty sure there
was something in there about sticking jabs and avoiding hooks, but he couldn’t
swear to the rest.
When he looked out into the crowd
(weren’t they cheering a little while ago?), he remembered that Fat Uncle
Anthony was out there, somewhere, though he couldn’t locate him any
longer.
He felt someone
pushing his back. He stood and saw the
huge man coming after him. When the big
man swung, he ducked. Paulie’s left hand
punched the big man quickly in the face.
Jab. Yep, that’s what Gus had
been talking about. The lights were
brighter now. The cheers were getting
louder. The big man tried to punch him
again. This time, he weaved around it,
launching two punches to the attacking man’s torso. He felt the jarring impact through his wrists
and arms, the jolt helping to bring him reawaken his senses.
He was fighting
an undefeated champion for that champion’s belt to become a champion
himself. He was hurt and overmatched and
outgunned, but he was still alive. That
may have been the best he could hope for.
Nah. Screw that.
He could do better.
Paulie stepped
forward, right in the line of fire, and cracked a straight left to the Russian’s
ribs. He dodged a counter hook, peppered
another straight and a hook to the champ’s breadbox. It crashed with a loud slap, and for the
first time, Paulie felt like he’d made substantial impact, though
Konstantinov’s blank face showed no sign of concern.
Paulie danced
sideways, his head now clearing. His
legs felt strong again, and he could suddenly hear the crowd.
He may have been
mistaken, but he could swear they were cheering for him.
He’d better give
them something to cheer about.
He unleashed a
looping overhand right and a slicing hook to the body—both connected
fully. The Russian had suddenly become a
non-moving target. It was too early to
assume he was taking the round off.
Maybe he’s just testing me to see what I’ve got, Paulie thought. He was determined to show him. Dam the torpedoes; he was going to fire away.
Paulie pressed;
for nearly the next forty five seconds he landed a flurry of relatively
unanswered shots to the Russian’s body and head. He could hear Dr. Alexander screaming at
Konstantinov in a language that may as well have been Martian as far as Paulie
could tell. Paulie didn’t let up. His wheels were good, and his wind was
pumping heavy, but controlled, thanks to Gus’s workouts.
He had taken
advantage of the Russian’s inactivity for the near entirety of the round. He couldn’t let Konstantinov steal it. With less than half a minute left, he saw his
opening.
Konstantinov
shot a sloppy, looping left. Paulie saw
that rolling shoulder, and knew the punch was coming before it was ever
thrown. He dropped low and threw a
smashing uppercut right to the champ’s jaw.
For the first
time, the Russian staggered. Paulie
smelled blood; he saw it too. His punch
had opened a nasty gash below Konstantinov’s eye.
The crowd went
crazy, spurring Paulie on. He swung a
right cross straight for the wound, splattering blood when it connected. It was
his main target now; both men knew it, as the champ tried to cover it with his
gloves. Paulie knew time was running
out, and he wanted to land at least one more good shot to that cut before the
bell. But the Russian wouldn’t allow
it. Hurt, perhaps for the first time in
his professional career, he sank into survival mode, grabbing Paulie and
drawing him into a tight clinch.
Forehead to
forehead, Paulie could feel the heat from the Russian’s breath on his face. He could smell it too. It was like something he’d never smelled
before. At least not among the living.
It was then that
he saw it. Pressed tight against the
cut, he caught a glimpse of something rubbery; felt its rigidity pressed near his temple. It was a tube of some sort. And he swore it was coming out of something
shiny, like metal.
Konstantinov
pushed him off. Paulie hoisted his
gloves, but not nearly high enough to protect his obviously flabbergasted
countenance.
The Russian
unleashed a straight right hand that Paulie felt crush the frontal bones in his
skull; his nose exploded as well, thanks to the champ’s Goliath-like
hands.
Ringside
flashbulbs erupted. Paulie saw them for
a slit second; then everything went black, despite the fact that his eyes were
open.
As his head
crashed into the canvas, he knew he wasn’t getting up. He was never going to get up. He could accept that, like he’d accepted his
place as the underdog. Hell, he could
even accept that he’d been retired—permanently—by whatever the hell that was. At least it had taken something…inhuman…to
put him down for good.
What he couldn’t
believe was that Fat Uncle Anthony hadn’t been concerned with protecting the
money. He had actually been concerned
with Paulie’s welfare. He was trying to
protect him.
“Sonuvabitch,”
Paulie thought to himself, as he drew his final breaths. “Didn’t see that one coming.”
