Part 19 (1/2)

”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.