WALKING SLOWLY up the entryway to Babel, I marveled at the transformation since last night. Plush red carpet absorbed my footfalls and marked the path the celebs would traverse. Heavy velvet rope separated the carpeted area from the press corral, forming a chute. As the celebrities made their way through this gauntlet, they would be waylaid by local television personalities in a well-choreographed dance that my staff had timed down to the split second. Of course, since nothing goes as planned, some wiggle room had been factored in, but we didn’t have much. Miss P’s job tonight was to keep things on schedule. I would handle any temper flare-ups, and Brandy would ride shotgun on the DJ, keeping him well oiled, but not too. Piece of cake. The step-and-repeat hung at an angle at the end of the long walk.
Here the newshounds would have their photo ops. Each celebrity had been schooled as to what to do, how to stand, so each and every sponsor of the event would see their name in bold print in the photographs splashed across the morning papers all over the nation and the Internet. Such a star-studded event was a great marketing opportunity, and our sponsors paid handsomely for the privilege, so we had to make good on our promises.
The interior of Babel had been transformed into a fairyland of trees sparkling with tiny white lights. Lit from below, the aquarium under the clear dance floor cast a shimmering glow. Fish, swimming lazily, cast uneven, ever-changing shadows. I still hadn’t gotten used to the whole walking-on-water sensation. A fraud in the God department, I knew one day I’d step out on the thing and end up all wet.
With the retractable roof open, the rich desert air mingled with the heady aromas of the gardenia blossoms floating in crystal decanters that decorated the tables in the VIP area. The tables had been booked for a year even though each reservation required the purchase of a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne in addition to any other beverages of choice.
With the sun still high in the sky, the air was comfortable. However, heat lamps stood ready to chase away the chill after dark.
Taking a seat at the curved bar nestled under brightly colored tents, I watched Sean, our head bartender, as he checked the assortment of wine and spirits. Actually, since all I could see of him protruding from the cabinet behind the bar was his ass, I watched that.
Counting bottles, he would periodically call out a number, which would be noted on a pad by one of the barbacks. Tonight, the count was especially important. The various medicinal offerings would be high-end specialty stuff or call brands—no well drinks tonight. Most bars had gone to an automated measuring system to prevent theft and over-pours, but the Big Boss thought that tacky. Not to mention it sorta peeved the bartenders to assume they were thieves ... . The Big Boss was all about loyalty, a loyalty that worked both ways.
“How’s your end stacking up?” I asked Sean.
Jumping at the sound of my voice, he banged his head and then backed out of the cabinet.
A nice-looking kid with spiked hair, a slightly receding hairline, and a ready smile, he held up a finger while he took the pen and jotted some numbers on the pad. When he finished, he stood, stretching his back. “This job is hell on the body—first the feet, then the rest.”
“A small sacrifice for all the fun we have,” I said. “You got everything under control?”
“More or less. We’ve got all the special requests filled; however, I’m missing a bottle of 1995 Krug Clos d’Ambonnay, but I’ll find it.” He shot me a grin. “Or shoot whoever stole it. But if they drank it, I’m screwed.”
“Sounds pricey.” With my humble background, I was no oenophile but, working for the Big Boss, I had traveled up the learning curve a bit. One thing I’d discovered—the more names a wine had, especially if they were words I’d never heard of and couldn’t pronounce, the more expensive it was.
“I’m assuming you have Mr. Marsh’s 1999 Bollinger on ice?”
Sean nodded. “And the Dom Pérignon for the Padilla victory party.”
“Ah, the cheap swill,” I said with a smile, then slapped the bar. “You’re the best.”
Instruments tuning up at the far end of the club screeched and wailed. Teddie and Reza, the band behind them, each had a mike in hand as they stood at the ready on the front of the stage.
Beating time on his thigh, Teddie counted down, “One, two, three, and ...”
The band launched into a dance tune, one of Reza’s I recognized but didn’t know well. The two of them sang it as a duet. Used to seeing Teddie performing in a dress, this was new for me.
With a sinking heart I realized that whatever “it” was, Teddie had it. Magic happened when he had a mike in his hand and a song in his heart. And Reza sparkled when she sang with him—even without the makeup and the lighting.
Good for them, not so good for me.
Despite my inner protests, the song swept me up in its rhythm. Keeping time on the bar as I listened, I noticed almost everyone—the janitor mopping in tempo, the young woman cracking crisp white linens and settling them on the tables, the waitstaff going through their preparations, and Sean—were also entranced.
Toward the end of the song, Teddie noticed me hanging back by the bar. He waved, then blew me a kiss, as he wrapped it up. At my wolf whistle, he bowed deeply.
So how did I grow up to be the significant other to a shooting star in the music world? And where did I go to learn how to handle it? Mother always told me that one of the great cosmic jokes was the fact that so much of life was learned on the fly. So I was the butt of a joke—just another of life’s little pleasures.
Happiness radiated from Teddie like warmth from a fire as he jumped from the stage and bounded over to me. As the band started in on another beat-driven tune, he swept me into his arms, whirling me around the dance floor.
His joy infectious, I laughed in spite of my heavy heart. Allowing the future to steal the fun from today would be a total waste, anyway.
When the dance tune came to an end, Reza segued into “At Last,” one of her signature songs that really let her voice soar. I nestled in as Teddie pulled me close, my hand over his heart, his hand covering mine.
Lost in the pull of the music, in the thrill of being in Teddie s arms, I let myself wish it would never end.
Yet, I knew, like wonderful songs, beautiful moments never last.
When the song ended, I came crashing back to reality. After giving me a kiss that set me tingling, Teddie returned to his preparations. And I went looking for problems.
Amazingly enough, I didn’t find any.
The Fates were toying with me, that I knew, but I was enjoying the calm before the tsunami. With the day rushing toward evening and all my ducks momentarily in a row, I paused as I walked through the casino on my problem-finding mission. Absorbing the energy shimmering off the crowd, I let it charge my batteries and light my inner smile.
No worries, not tonight, I told myself. At least no worries about my future.
A scrum of young men, laughing and slapping each other on the backs, burst through the entrance. Young women, all dressed to the nines, admired the men. Couples held hands. Anticipation lit faces. The whole world came to Vegas to shrug off worry and responsibility.
So where did I go to do that? I hadn’t a clue.
My stomach, already roiling with worry over Torti Padilla and his family and Jimmy G, stabbed me with a sharp pain. On top of that, a headache threatened to join my ever-present heartache. With my stomach, my head, and my heart threatening mutiny, I ordered my mind to take control. For once it complied. Plastering a smile on my face, I fed off the excitement of the crowd.
Romeo’s call caught me standing at the window that overlooks the ski slope and watching the skiers, unfettered by fear, fly down the hill. “Hey, Romeo. How’s tricks?”
“l bet you get interesting responses to that question,” he said, after a pause.
“You think?” I cringed, then resisted shouting for the paramedics as I watched one young lady do a face-plant into the icy man-made snow. “What would your answer be?” I asked him.
“Is this a test or something?”
“Just checking where you rank on the glibness meter.” I watched the young woman right herself on her skis then push off downhill once again. She looked dazed, or half-looped. I made a mental note to ask about drinking and skiing. Did they make them walk a white line or breathe into a tube? “Actually, that was a lie,” I continued. “I’m trying to find my smile. Being silly sometimes helps.”
“I’m pretty good at finding things,” the young detective said. “Where was your smile the last time you saw it?”
“Cute.” I felt a curl bend my lips—my smile had returned. “So did you call just to cheer me up or what?”
“Actually, I wanted to tell you about my day,” he said. “As you suggested, I did some research on the suppliers of bee venom. There aren’t many. To my amazement, Glinda Lovato used her own name and credit card when she bought the stuff from an outfit on the Delmarva Peninsula.”
“Stupid, but hardly convicting.” Abandoning the skiers to their fate, I pushed through the front doors. Cars already stood six abreast at the valet desk as people in their glad rags streamed into the hotel.
“But, coupled with the other circumstantial evidence, it was enough to convince Judge Fury to sign a search warrant for the Lovatos’. I’m on my way there now.”
“What do you hope to find?” I asked, as I breathed in the cool evening air.
“That smoking gun you mentioned.”
“Numbers’s perfume atomizer? Do you really expect it to be at the Lovatos’? I never took them for being quite that dumb.” Although, I thought, Glinda wasn’t exactly the brightest light in Vegas.
“Well, it’s got to be somewhere.”
Probably at the bottom of Lake Mead, or tossed under a bush on the Strip for someone to find and steal, I thought, but I wasn’t going to burst the kid’s bubble. Besides, searching the Lovatos’ house might be the shove that pushed one of them over the edge.
Then maybe we’d have our killer.
Miss P, her head bent over a sheaf of papers, her brows crinkled in concentration, scarcely gave me a glance when I came through the office door. She’d already changed for the evening. Her little black dress, gold heels, and large diamonds at her earlobes hit just the right note.
“Jeremy called,” she announced. “He said they hadn’t found somebody named Jimmy G yet, but he was chasing a hot lead.”
“Track me down if you hear from him again, okay? Right now I need to change, then I’ll be with the Big Boss in the VIP section for the fight.” I kicked off my shoes and began unbuttoning my blouse as I headed into my office. “He’s got some heavy hitters in town, and I’m part of the dog-and-pony show.”
Miss Patterson followed me, then leaned against the doorjamb, watching as I applied my war paint. “Brandy’s tailing the DJ,” she said. “As soon as you head out, I’m going to button things up here and head to Babel for the final preparations.”
I slipped out of my slacks and top. The cleaners had delivered my outfit for this evening, a midnight blue sequined top and silver silk cocktail pants. My old standbys, the silver Jimmy Choos, and my own square-cut diamonds completed the ensemble. Like a chorus girl putting on her costume for the tenth show this week, I donned it all with indifference.
One last grimace in the mirror told me I looked the part I was to play. But something had changed, I thought, as I returned to my refection. This time I examined myself more closely, with more studied care. The same old, unexceptional me stared back.
The same ... but different. Then it hit me—I felt sexy. When had that happened? And how? A side benefit to meaningful between-the-sheets time? If that was the case, with all the benefits of regular sex, it was amazing anyone bothered to get out of bed anymore.
“Have you seen Jordan?” I asked, willing my thoughts to divorce themselves from my libido—a valiant battle but one I was destined to lose if I spent any time around Teddie tonight. I vowed to steer clear until the night was well in hand, or I might embarrass us both.
“Jordan?” Miss Patterson’s voice fluttered, then faltered.
“Yeah,” I said as I stepped in front of her, waving my hand in front of her eyes, which seemed to have lost focus. “Jordan Marsh—you know the guy I mean—tall, graying temples, killer smile, great ass?”
“No.”
I raised my eyebrows at her. “No? You don’t know him?”
Stepping out of my way, she looked flustered. “I mean, no, I haven’t seen him.”
“I guess you wouldn’t be this cool, calm, and collected if you had?” I asked, biting back a smile. “He was supposed to stop by for his VIP passes.”
“Someday you’re going to have to tell me all about him,” she said, as she followed me to the outer door.
My hand on the knob, I paused. “Not a chance,” I shot back. “I’m saving all my Hollywood scuttlebutt for that tell-all book I’m going to write.” That, of course, was a lie, but it sounded good. I made a mental note to use it again at the first opportunity. “I’m headed to the Arena,” I added. “I’ll leave the passes here. If he comes before you go, fine. If not, lock up anyway. He knows how to find me.”
Music pulsed from the beehive of speakers hanging above the ring where Tortilla Padilla would rendezvous with his destiny in less than two hours. The technical crew made final adjustments, not only to the sound system but also to the lights and the projected screen images as well. Television cameras covering every angle were each manned by a cameraman shooting background shots. A few patrons dressed in evening finery with drinks in hand mingled in the ringside section—lesser VIPs who were most likely representatives of some of the sponsors. The real celebrities waited until they had an audience before making their entrance.
Jerry, a microphone hooked over one ear and extending to his lips, spoke rapidly as he gestured to his team of in-arena security people who had gathered at the side of the ring. He’d traded his informal attire for a dark suit, white shirt, and understated tie.
I made my way down to the floor, then waited until he finished his briefing and had dismissed his people before I stepped in beside him. “How’s it shaping up?” I asked.
“A few surprises, but nothing major. We knew one senator was coming and had his security detail in place when another senator got wind of it and demanded to be front and center as well.” Jerry ran a hand over his bare pate. “We’ve been scrambling half the afternoon negotiating with his muscle and PR people.”
“The spin doctors are really my burden,” I said, as I scanned the arena. “Why didn’t you get my office involved?” On my second pass, I saw Jordan and Rudy as they paused in one of the doorways. Waving, I caught their attention, then motioned for them to join me.
“Fool that I am, I decided to take it myself,” Jerry remarked with a chuckle. “I couldn’t imagine the PR people could be that bad. After one particularly odious witch took a couple of bites out of my ass, I almost bailed and called you.”
“Being barracudas is part of their job description,” I said. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve got the scars to prove it.”
“Scars to prove what?” asked Jordan, as he and Rudy joined us. The two of them looked delicious, all spit-and-polished in their tailored suits and broad smiles.
“Scars on my heart to prove men can’t be trusted,” I replied as Jordan shook hands with Jerry, then introduced Rudy.
“You got to kiss a lot of frogs ...” Jordan said, as he bussed my cheek, then grabbed my hand and hooked it through his elbow.
“To find your prince, I know,” I said. “But nobody warned me about the toads.”
Jordan gave me a knowing look. “Sweetheart, they come as a shock to all of us.”
“How’s our boy doing tonight?” Rudy asked.
I assumed he meant Tortilla Padilla. Rudy was his lawyer and had negotiated all the contracts for the fight. “Why don’t we go see?” I said.
Rudy hooked my free hand through his arm. After saying goodbye to Jerry, like Dorothy, the Tin Man, and the Scarecrow, we charged off three abreast through the tunnel to find our main event. I hummed a few bars of “We’re Off to See the Wizard,” which earned grins from my two escorts.
Crash, his feet spread, his hands on his hips, blocked the entrance to the dressing rooms. “Hey, Ms. O’Toole, Mr. Gillespi, Mr. Marsh.”
“Crash.” Jordan extended his hand, which was dwarfed in the big man’s. “How’s our boy doing?”
“He’s doin’ good. Real good.” Crash glanced around then lowered his voice. “But between you and me, he’s a bit jumpier than usual.”
“There’s a lot riding on tonight,” I added. I saw the worry in Crash’s eyes as he nodded at me, then stepped aside and opened the door.
“Go on in. He’s expecting you guys.” As I passed, Crash grabbed my arm momentarily and whispered in my ear. “Make him smile—it’ll calm him down.”
People invite me to parties as the comic relief, so I’m pretty confident of my talents in that department. However, when I got my first glimpse of Tortilla Padilla, his face drawn, his eyes worried, his posture stiff, I knew I needed to conjure championship-level flippancy.
The normally effervescent fighter sat on a training table, his feet dangling, his hands wrapped and bound into his gloves, his personality absent. Like a wooden puppet whose strings had been cut, he slouched, drawing in on himself. He looked up and managed a weak smile when we entered the small room, which smelled of Bengay, rubbing alcohol, sweat ... and a whiff of fear.
If we didn’t loosen up our man, I doubted he could stand up, much less throw a punch. Mother always said it takes two to make a good fight. Although I don’t think she was referring to prizefights, the reference applied. And right now the fighter in Tortilla Padilla was MIA.
Jordan and Rudy, their smiles on the highest candlepower setting, rushed to greet Torti. With back slaps and high fives, they did their best to boost his mood. After a few minutes of the cocky-banter thing, I could see the stiffness in his posture ease a bit.
I shouldered in between Jordan and Rudy. “I don’t follow the fight game too closely,” I said to Tortilla Padilla, as three sets of eyes turned my direction. “But there’s something I always wondered about.”
“Do I worry about getting hurt?” the fighter asked, anticipating my question.
“No.” I shook my head. “I’ve always wondered, with your hands laced into those gloves—you can’t take them off by yourself, right?”
A serious expression on his face, he looked at me with troubled eyes and shook his head.
Keeping my face blank, I said, “Who holds your peter when you need to pee?”
A moment passed as the three men looked at me; nobody said anything. Then, almost in unison, they burst out laughing. In that instant, the tension fled, and the Tortilla Padilla I knew reappeared.
He leapt off the table, and grabbed me in a bear hug. Stepping back, his eyes dancing, he said, “That lady is called the peter-holder, and we check her credentials very carefully.”
Since I couldn’t grab his hand, I gave Torti’s face a pat. “Knock ’em out, Champ.”
Patrons were streaming into the arena when Jordan, Rudy, and I left the locker room. Music thumped from the speakers at a decibel or two under my pain threshold. Spotlights played on the ring, amplifying the darkness in the rest of the cavernous space. Clad in the requisite tux, the MC for the evening prowled the ropes, waiting for his cue.
The energy of the crowd rose as Glinda Lovato, in her tiny orange bikini and heels, ducked through the ropes and sashayed around the ring. Several in the crowd signaled their approval with ear-splitting wolf whistles.
When she passed by me, our eyes locked and, for the briefest moment, her smile vanished. Then she looked away, cranked her smile back to full wattage, and moved on.
That woman was angling for a fight, and she was going to get it. My Taser comment to Jeremy had been a joke, but now, as I watched Glinda’s rippling physique, her feral grace as she moved around the ring, I wished I’d actually followed through. Of course, getting one of the stun guns past Security would have been a trick.
Glinda’s sidekick, a younger, softer blonde in a hot-pink bikini and heels, stepped through the ropes and did her turn around the ring, eliciting more enthusiastic whistles. The two women apparently were going to tag-team as the Round Card Girls for tonight’s fight.
Jordan ducked out the side entrance so he could make his grand arrival when the timing was right. Rudy headed for the bar in the VIP section, and I made my way to the foot of the steps to greet the Big Boss and his party, who were descending from the entrance level.
After I said my hellos to all of his guests, my father pulled me aside. “Where’s Teddie? Is everything good between you two?”
“Sure,” I said, keeping my eyes on Glinda Lovato as she again paraded for the crowd. “He’s running the show tonight at Babel, so he’s staying up there, going through final preparations and all of that.”
“I see.” He gave me a piercing look as if trying to blast through my bullshit. He could try, but he was up against the master.
Finally, it hit me that the Big Boss had no Mona on his arm. “Where’s Mother?”
“Still pouting, I guess. I haven’t talked to her.” He put on a brave face. “You women.”
“We are strange creatures, indeed.” I said, as I took his arm. “Come on, we’ve got guests to entertain.”
With Bakker Rutan, the stunning actress who insisted Las Vegas was too depressing to be seen in the daylight, on his arm, Jordan made his entrance to the roar of the crowd. As the spotlights captured them, they waved from the entrance, then made their way down to our little corner of the universe.
At the bottom of the steps, Jordan peeled away from Ms. Rutan, leaving her to fend for herself.
I gave him a dirty look as I went to rescue the actress from the embarrassment of not having a fawning fan near.
When I passed by Jordan, he whispered in my ear, “Be careful of that one. She’s pretty, but she’s poisonous. A real bloodsucker.”
“With her aversion to daylight, I did wonder,” I snapped, and was rewarded with a grin.
Ms. Rutan was tall and, in the current Hollywood mold, painfully thin. Her skin, pale to the point of translucence, pooled in her hollows, accentuating each bone. She wore a simple flowing sheath of the palest pink silk, which hung on her gaunt frame as if from a hanger—her body having no form underneath it. When she turned her eyes to me, they were cold, lifeless, and the palest blue—as if she’d been drained of blood and preserved in ice. Her face showed no welcome or hint of interest as I approached.
Introducing myself to our actress, I steered her toward the Big Boss’s group. Pawning her off on him, I dove in and did the meet-and-mingle thing. Spying a couple of our corporate investors from New York that I actually liked, I joined them while the MC got the evening’s undercard bouts under way.
Wetting my whistle with a glass of Bordeaux, I played my part, taking little interest in the fights until the bell sounded and the arena quieted as the announcer began his pitch for the title bout. My heart leapt into my throat. A giant hand squeezed my stomach.
A nervous hush fell over the crowd as the announcer turned the MC duties to renowned ring maestro, Winston Wiler. Dark hair giving way to silver, trim and handsome in his tuxedo, he bounced onto the stage. A spotlight followed him as he stoked the fires.
“Are you ready?” he shouted.
The crowd rewarded him with an anemic yell that barely elevated the underlying noise level.
“Are you ready?” he shouted again, much louder this time.
Now the crowd responded with a resounding, “Yes!”
“Tonight for the thousands of you watching, and the millions tuning in worldwide, the title of Undisputed Middleweight Champion of the World hangs in the balance.” Mr. Wiler gestured toward a corner of the Arena. The spotlights immediately congregated there. “From the Ukraine, undefeated in his first forty-six professional bouts, holding the title of Middleweight Champion as well as a PhD in Romance Languages, Mr. Yvegny Kutz, also known as Doctor Demolition!”
Dressed in white, the current champion bounded down the aisle and stepped through the ropes. From the neck down, he looked every inch one of the best pound-for-pound fighters in the world. Above the neck, he had mousy brown hair that stuck out in uneven tufts—as if he’d put his head in a blender—a flat face, and a sullen expression. All rather pedestrian if you overlooked that angry, streetwise, chip-on-his-shoulder sneer. Doctor Demolition looked ready, willing, and able to fight—facts that knotted the worry in my stomach.
The crowd vigorously shouted, “Booooooo!”
“And now ...” Mr. Wiler shouted over the derision of the crowd, as fanfare trumpeted from the speakers.
The crowd stood, clapping and cheering. Feet stomped until I thought the roof would fall. The noise, the excitement, the release that came from yelling and booing, all combined into a heady rush, carrying me along.
“From the United States of America ...”
The crowd let out a whoop. One particularly vocal guy in the stands above us shouted, “Knock the shit out of Kutz the Putz!”
While it was not resoundingly original, I seconded that emotion. Caught up in the frenzy, I felt like shouting something obscene, but I stifled myself. The Big Boss would be horrified. Come to think of it, I would be, too. What was it with me lately? Somewhere along the way I had started losing my grasp on me.
“... the former undisputed, undefeated Middleweight Champion of the Universe, Tiny Tortilla Padilla!” Mr. Wiler had to shout into the microphone to be heard as the crowd went wild.
Pumping his fists and dressed in his signature red, white, and blue, Torti Padilla bounded down the aisle, through the ropes, and around the ring, his megawatt smile at full intensity. He pranced and preened. Throwing jabs and shadowboxing, he milked the crowd, working them into a frenzy.
While the boxers danced and flexed, the MC introduced the Nevada Athletic Commission, the sanctioning body for the fight. Each member made his way into the ring, slapped first one fighter then the other on the shoulder, and basked in his one minute of fame.
On his way to the bar, Jordan stopped and said in my ear, “That European won’t know what hit him—he’s never faced a scrapper like Torti. The fastest hands and reflexes I’ve ever seen. And a wily fighter, to boot.”
“Let’s hope Dr. Demolition doesn’t flatten our Tortilla,” I said, in a feeble attempt at levity that fell flat. Both Jordan and I knew, if this fight was one fight too many, Torti could end up with scrambled eggs for brains.
“Mex retired with the titles,” Jordan said, as he eyed the fighters in the ring. “After tonight, they’ll be his again.”
I clung to his confidence the way a swimmer caught in a riptide clung to a rope tethered to shore.
Jordan continued his search for a fresh drink and I turned my attention back to the ring, where the MC was now introducing any and all boxing luminaries in the crowd. One by one, they waved to the crowd as they made their way into the ring. There, they greeted each fighter.
The buzz of the crowd grew with each former fighter introduced, with each obscure official taking his place in the ring, with each senator who insisted on mingling with the important people.
Anticipation ignited the crowd like a torch to tinder. They clapped. They jeered.
The bottled-up energy and emotion shot my blood pressure through the roof.
“And now,” Mr. Wiler shouted, his voice tinged with excitement, “one last man who needs no introduction. An Olympic champion, as a professional this fighter defeated seventeen world champions, won ten world titles in six different weight classes ...” The MC fell silent, and stepped aside.
Oscar de la Hoya stepped through the ropes.
The crowd exploded.
Oscar greeted the fighters, lingering with Torti Padilla. He waved to the crowd and flashed a smile, then stepped out of the spotlight.
With the introductions made and the ring clearing, Mr. Wiler added his trademark, “Are you ready to rrrrrumble?”
The crowd went berserk. If I’d been in the stands, I’d probably be wearing more beer right now than I could drink in a month.
Crash, his face a mask, eased through the ropes and settled into Torti’s corner, his bucket at the ready.
With relatively little fanfare, the referee for the evening took over as the fighters stepped to their corners to shrug off their capes. When ready, their trainers stuffed in their mouthpieces, whispered last words in their ears, then sent their charges to the center of the ring. Bouncing on their toes, shaking their arms at their sides, the fighters glared at each other as the referee laid out the rules.
They hadn’t thrown a punch, and I was already a wreck as I watched Torti return to sit on the small stool in his corner. His hair glistened with styling gel, but his face was wet with sweat. His dark eyes were two holes of intensity, windows to the soul of a champion. His face, drawn tight with concentration, showed no fear.
Did he have one more valiant fight in him?
The Big Boss stepped in by my side. I’ve got a hundred Gs on our man,” he said.
“Last I heard, the line had Dr. Demolition eight to five.” I said, as I sipped my wine, my eyes never leaving Torti. He might not be showing any fear, but I wasn’t so lucky. My hand shook; my heart pounded.
The bell rang and the fighters shot off their stools, springing to the middle of the ring where they touched gloves and separated. Dancing around each other, they threw tentative jabs, testing, teasing. Torti saw an opening and pounced in a flurry of jabs. Several landed with meaty thunks against the champion’s midsection.
So close, I could hear Dr. Demolition’s grunts of pain as he absorbed Torti’s blows.
Desperate for first blood, the crowd roared, urging the fighters on.
One of our VIPs, an unlit cigar in his mouth, shouted at the fighters from just below their feet. “You get that Ruskie SOB!” He grabbed the cigar from his teeth and punctuated the air in emphasis.
As a battle cry, it didn’t quite have the rousing effects of “Remember the Alamo,” but I gave him an A for enthusiasm.
Both fighters lowered their heads and fought in earnest now. Some punches landed; others glanced off. Sweat beaded and trickled in rivulets down the lean bodies. Torti landed a hook to the European’s jaw. His head snapped around, flinging sweat over the crowd. Dr. Demolition faltered.
Torti dropped his left hand slightly, and somehow, like a mountain lion after a fawn, the champion jumped through the opening. His wicked uppercut caught Torti in the jaw. Sweat flew. The crowd hushed. Torti staggered back.
The bell rang.
I almost fainted.
Torti wobbled to his corner and plopped on his stool. He tried to focus as Crash broke an ammonia tube under his nose. A couple of whiffs and the fighter’s eyes opened wide.
“Damn it, Mex,” Crash growled at his fighter in a voice loud enough for half the VIPs to hear. “You cocky son of a bitch. You been dropping that glove since you was fifteen. Don’t you learn nuthin’?”
Torti flashed him a broad grin, which was brilliant, even with the mouthpiece.
I could see the red welt on his jaw where the punch had landed. My jaw hurt for him.
Glinda Lovato sashayed around the ring carrying a large sign over her head signaling Round Two. The crowd whistled and jeered as she preened for them, drinking in their adulation.
My father, still at my side, took a sip of his drink as he watched the spectacle with hooded eyes. “Our fella got lucky there,” he said, displaying his flair for the obvious.
Too nervous to speak, I grunted in reply as Round Two got underway.
That uppercut apparently got Torti’s attention. This round he was a different fighter. Gone was the tentativeness. From the bell, he attacked his opponent—stepping in, a flurry of punches, then backing out. Waiting, testing, then another attack—keeping Dr. Demolition off guard and flat-footed.
The general consensus in our group was a decisive victory in Round Two for Torti, so each fighter had won a round.
Great, only ten more to go.
This time, when Torti returned to his corner, Crash gave him a nod, then squirted water into his mouth, but said nothing.
I watched as Glinda’s counterpart took her turn around the ring announcing Round Three.
Curious as to where the evil Ms. Lovato had gone, I eased to the corner of the ring and poked my head around. Glinda had stepped off the stage and was rooting in her purse. She pulled her cell from the bag, stared at it, her brows creased in an unreadable expression. When she caught me looking, she glared at me and stuffed the phone back into her satchel.
The bell sounded, jangling my already frayed nerves. Round Three was under way. Torti again came out wailing away, but this time, the Champion was a bit more prepared. He blocked some of the punches and landed a few of his own. By the end of the round, I was woozy from holding my breath. Torti had bloodied the European’s nose, and Dr. Demolition had repaid him with a shot to his right eye, which was beginning to swell.
The crowd chanted, “Torti, Torti, Torti.”
Their fighter responded by raising his hands and doing a few air jabs as he pranced back to his corner. Crash slapped an ice pack over Torti’s eye as he whispered in his ear.
From her elevated perch, Glinda glowered down at me as she waited her turn to do the number thing.
I was matching her stare-for-stare when my phone rang, scaring me into breaking eye contact. With a practiced motion, I glanced at the number then flipped the thing open with one hand, pressing my other hand over my ear. “Hey, Jeremy.”
“I found our man.” he said. At least that’s what I thought he said.
“What?” I shouted over the noise. “You’re going to have to speak up.” With a nod to my father, I moved toward the stairs. “You found him?” I bounded up the stairs two at a time. The noise grew a little bit less the higher I went.
“We found him at a fleabag out on the Boulder Highway—the Nurse-A-Nickel, or something like that.” Jeremy couldn’t hide the excitement and relief in his voice. “They had him trussed up like a sheep during shearing season. But they only left one guy to guard him.”
I didn’t want to know what Jeremy had done to the hapless guard, so I didn’t ask. “Who took him there,” I asked with my last breath, as I hit the top of the stairs.
“His daughter, if you believe that shit.” Glinda Lovato!
In the entranceway to the Arena, I whirled to gaze down at the ring.
Glinda was gone.