Part 19 (2/2)

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?”