About twenty-four hours after our impromptu living room training session, the three of us were waiting for Blalock to show up. Khajee boiled a plastic mouthpiece in a teapot and shoved it between my teeth still hot, telling me to bite down and suck hard to make a good mold. When we heard Blalock’s horn beeping out front, I stood and Khajee grabbed a backpack. Than leaned into his walker to rise to his feet and shook my hand. His grip was weak but his eyes were bright. He said, “Be tough tonight, okay? Tough like the Tiger King.”

Slightly confused, I figured he was messing with me again, so I just said I’d do my best.

I sat up front next to Blalock during the forty-five-minute drive. As we headed up the highway, he asked Khajee how her uncle was getting along and, from the back seat, she said, “Fine.”

“Diabetes is a vexing affliction,” Blalock said.

Khajee answered, “Yeah. It’s a bitch. Poor man’s got a list of problems as long as my arm. He’s dealing with them his own way.”

Something struck me. “I saw him meditating yesterday,” I said.

Khajee said, “It helps with the phantom pain.”

Blalock changed lanes and passed a minivan, then glanced in the rearview mirror. “Phantom pain?”

“From the amputation,” Khajee explained behind us. “That leg’s been gone for nearly two years, but that foot still bothers him. Sometimes it’s an itching sensation. Others it’s more of a burn. Damaged nerve endings.”

“That sounds intolerable,” Blalock said, naming what I was feeling.

Blalock and I traded glances, uncertain how to follow up. This notion of feeling pain from something no longer there, something literally cut away, seemed familiar, almost like déjà vu. I couldn’t place it. The SUV was quiet for a while, and we eased past a cop parked on the side hiding in wait for speeders. I turned to Khajee and asked, “What did Than mean before, about the Tiger King? He was just yanking my chain, yeah?”

Khajee glanced at Blalock, like she wished I’d asked when we were alone. But still she said, “That’s King Sri Saan Petch, an ancient ruler of Thailand. He was a great Muay Thai fighter, so fierce he could not be defeated. At a certain point, he couldn’t even find opponents because none of his loyal subjects would fight him if they recognized that he was the king. So he cut off the head of a tiger and wore it as a mask to hide his identity.”

Blalock said, “Charming ancestral mythology.”

Khajee didn’t say anything more, and I realized I was glad. For some reason, I didn’t like picturing a man with a tiger’s head.

I was surprised when we pulled off 78 and seemed to be following signs for the Taj Mahal Resort, one of Pennsylvania’s first casinos. The electric billboard out front blinked “Tonight Only, Men at Work.”

“Guess I’m not the headliner,” I said.

Blalock parked and told me, “The evening’s exhibition is an atypical affair.”

I stared at him, and he said, “Out of the ordinary. Unusual.”

“I know what you meant. I just can’t tell why you talk like that.”

“Your opinions aren’t especially material. But know this too: Hold that loose tongue in Mr. Sunday’s presence. He isn’t a man who brooks foolishness. Is the meaning of these words also clear?”

I heard Khajee’s breath shift behind me and wondered what was up. But I said only, “You bet.”

Blalock led us inside, through the throngs of would-be winners crowded around roulette tables and hunched over clanging slot machines. One old lady wore a single white glove, and its tips were black with ink from the coins she was losing one at a time.

We made our way to an elevator marked, “Employees Only — Service” and stepped in. Because I was behind Blalock, I didn’t see what button he hit, but I could feel us descending, down into the lower levels. When the doors split open, Grunt was standing there like a brick wall, arms crossed and blank-eyed. He didn’t grin or welcome us in any way, which seemed to be his MO, and this second time around really hit home how the guy had no discernible neck. His eyes were set deep in his face, two black marbles that didn’t even register recognition. He just turned and started walking.

The three of us followed Grunt down a dim concrete corridor to a door with “Banquet Storage” written on it, and when he opened it, I could see tables and chairs stacked against the walls. But the center of the large room was cleared, and the fluorescent lights on the low ceiling overhead illuminated just four figures. In his white suit, Mr. Sunday stood next to a gentleman seated in an electric wheelchair. The light cast a shine off Sunday’s bald head. Behind them both, on the fringes of the shadow, was a young woman — a nurse, or a young bride, or both. The old man’s arms twitched involuntarily, some sort of spasm, and his hand trembled as he lifted a cigarette to his thin lips. He blew smoke into the air and clapped as we approached.

The fourth figure, clearly my opponent, was off to the side, shadowboxing against a cinderblock column. He turned at the sound of the thin applause, and I sized him up: about 220, a bit shorter than me. He wore a black tank top, gym shorts, and sneakers.

Sunday said, “Mr. Kaminski, your date has arrived.” He met us in the center of the cleared square of concrete and continued, “Mr. Blalock, would you handle the introductions, please?”

Blalock frowned and said, “Mr. Sunday, Edward MacIntyre. Edward, Mr. Sunday.”

Sunday offered his hand and we shook. His palm was sweaty but his grip was strong, especially for a geezer. He fixed his blue eyes on me and said, “Ed MacIntyre Jr., isn’t it? It’s true what they say. You’re a dead ringer for your old man, Kid.”

As usual at the comparison, I flinched on the inside. He went on, “I’ve also heard you’re a scrapper like him.”

“I can handle myself okay,” I said.

He released my hand. “That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?” He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Two thousand to the winner. Loser gets an ice pack and a coupon for a free buffet upstairs.”

Blalock and I hadn’t discussed specifics, so I saw no chance to negotiate these terms. With his cut, I’d make just over $1500.

In the far corner I shrugged off my hoodie and unlaced my sneakers. Something buzzed in Khajee’s backpack, and she pulled out her phone, checked a message with a regretful look.

“What’s up?” I asked.

She shook away my question but answered. “Just some friends from school. I was afraid it might be Than.” With this, she returned the phone and pulled a bottled water from her backpack. I took a shot but my mind snagged on this notion that she had friends at school, of course. Outside this fighting world, she had a whole other life. But for now, she was laser-focused. “Get warmed up,” she said sternly. “Don’t let them rush you.” Khajee wrapped some tape around my knuckles and wrists and then eased my mouth guard into place, something I wasn’t used to but knew I’d need if I wanted to keep my teeth. “Stick to what you know with this guy. Ground and pound. Don’t box him or try to finesse anything.”

“I don’t do finesse,” I mumbled out.

“All right,” she said. “Lose the sneakers.”

It felt weird to be barefoot, the concrete floor cool on my toes and the balls of my heels. I bounced on my chilly feet, cranked my head left and right, then slapped my cheeks a few times to get the blood going. I heard Coach Gallaher saying, “Your moves. Your moves.” My opponent watched from fifteen feet away, eyeing me up. He looked like he was in his later thirties, maybe even forty. His mouth guard was black, and he was sporting two enormous cauliflower ears, bulbous and thick. I nodded to Khajee and said, “All set.” She signaled Sunday.

Blalock had unfolded a seat and settled in by the wheelchair. Sunday bent to whisper in the old man’s ear, who pulled the cigarette from his lips, kissed out a cloud of smoke, and croaked, “No mercy! Prepare! Brawl!”

I guess I wasn’t worthy of cameras or gongs just yet.

I trotted to the center and, purely from habit, extended a loose hand to shake. Kaminski swung a left hook over the opening and connected square on my cheek, hard enough to crank my head. I backed up, blinking away the stars, and saw him advance through blurry vision. He landed a couple shots to my ribs, and I finally woke up. Hunched like a wrestler, I grabbed one of his wrists but he yanked back, staying in a boxer’s stance. I lurched forward and grabbed his other wrist, but that one too he snapped free.

We circled each other, then his fists flew in rapid combination. I lifted my forearms to protect my face, but he just pummeled my gut, bending me over into a crouch. With no real target, I poked out a few punches but only found empty air.

His assault paused for a moment, and when I looked up, between my raised fists, I saw Kaminski easing back, sucking air hard. His tank was emptying fast. I charged in blindly, only to eat his knee as he plowed it up into my face. Dropped to all fours, I saw my mouth guard on the concrete. When I reached for it, Kaminski booted me in the ribs. I collapsed on my side, right by the shiny black wingtips worn by the man in the wheelchair. He leaned over and I looked up at his face. Behind him, his nurse/wife/girlfriend looked down on me with pity. The old man turned to Sunday and said, “Singularly unimpressive.”

Sunday glanced at Blalock. Next to him, Khajee said, “Get up, Mac!”

But that didn’t happen because Kaminski made the mistake of his life — or at least of the night. Instead of attacking right away or waiting for me to get up and go back to boxing, he circled with his arms on his hips. His gut was sucking in and out, and I knew he was just catching his breath. So sure, I sort of played possum, rolling to my back and going limp. Lured in, Kaminski stood over me and stretched down for my right wrist, extended my arm, and pinched my elbow between his knees. Most guys would panic, getting locked in an arm bar, but not me — I saw what was coming next, as clear in my mind as a movie on a screen. Standing with my arm, Kaminski planted one foot under my neck and one under my armpit, and when he sat to his butt, he expected to stretch out that arm until I screamed in pain and gave up. Instead, as he dropped down, I snapped to life, rolled into his momentum, jabbing my elbow into his belly, freeing that arm, and ending up on top of him, chest planted on chest. I righted myself, kneeling over his body, and my hammer fists rained down on his face like bombs. I even sprinkled in a few elbows just to show Khajee I’d been paying attention. Exhausted as he was — and shocked by my resurrection — Kaminski put up a crappy defense, barely deflecting any of my strikes. When he realized he couldn’t protect his face, he managed to slide onto his belly and tuck his forearms along his head, a turtle retreating to its shell. So I whaled on his arms for a minute, and Blalock cheered. I glanced up and saw them smiling, Sunday and the old man and his nurse/wife/girlfriend. Khajee simply nodded, satisfied by the turn the fight had taken.

Beneath me, Kaminski had gone still except for his breathing. I could hear him wheezing, and when I stopped my attack he turned his face a bit to look up at me. I lifted a fist and said, “We all done?” But he didn’t try to escape or tap the ground. Instead he just curled up again in a guard position.

Blalock said, “There’s no bell here Edward. You’re compelled to make him submit.”

Khajee shouted, “Make him tap!”

No problem, I thought, and without much trouble I slid in a half nelson, sneaking my right hand under his armpit and latching it behind his head. Usually this is a move we use to turn a wrestler to his back, show him the lights, but I realized here that without a ref to call him pinned, that was no good. I also realized something else: No ref was going to call me for a full nelson.

Seconds later, I had my left arm in the same position, with both hands on the back of his head, his arms splayed, and his face fully exposed to the concrete floor. Without my mouth guard in, I could clearly say, “Dude, you know where this is going, right?”

He didn’t make any sign that he’d heard me, so I decided to get his attention. Lying flat on his back, my chest on his shoulder blades, I curved his spine up and then drove us both forward, smashing his forehead into the concrete. He turned his face to the side so his cheek took the brunt of the impact, but it still made a sickening thunk. Blalock said, “Brutal!” and I heard the old man in the wheelchair chuckle. I realized that since I had Kaminski’s arms locked out like that, he had no way to tap out. So I asked him good and loud, “You had enough?”

His only response was a weak thrashing, but he couldn’t shake me. His breath was heavy, and I knew he’d take some more convincing. So I banged his head again, then a third time. I was totally jacked on the adrenaline now, certain of my victory, totally in control, and I wonder how many times I’d have smashed his face if not for Khajee. She muttered something in Thai and I looked over at her. Her green eyes blinked as she tried to process just what she was seeing. But I could tell she wasn’t entirely pleased. Beneath me, Kaminski was limp, a 220-pound rag doll, and when I released the full nelson he slumped onto the ground. I got to one knee and glanced Sunday’s way. “Guess I’m tuned up now.”

Sunday clearly wasn’t a fan of my tone. He stepped forward and commanded, “Turn him over.”

When I did, we all saw Kaminski’s face, which resembled raw hamburger. His eyes rolled in their sockets but he managed to give us both a nasty look. Blalock appeared next to me and patted a hand on my shoulder. “Imposing display, Edward.” The old man had the woman push him over and he leaned forward to stare down at the defeated man. Then he craned his face to Sunday. “I was promised blood.”

“So you were,” Sunday said. “Kid, please oblige our good patron.”

“What now?” I asked.

“Hit him again,” Sunday explained. Behind him, Khajee sucked in her breath.

“This guy’s had enough,” I said. “Fight’s over.”

Sunday’s eyes tightened in anger. “Your opponent hasn’t submitted and is still conscious. The fight is over when I say it’s over. And I say, hit him.”

I looked down at Kaminski. “It’s not your night,” I told him. “You’re done. Tap out.”

Instead though, he turned his face to the side, spit onto the concrete, and said, “Kiss my ass.”

That was all the motivation I needed. Genuflecting over his chest, I dropped a right straight down on his nose, and the crunch sounded like the break on a pool table. Kaminski smiled, so I popped a left into his mouth. Since he couldn’t seem to stop grinning, I capped things off by lifting my right elbow above my shoulder and pumped it like a piston, jackhammering his face. I heard myself saying something. Maybe it was “You still smiling now?”

The dream got popped when someone’s hand settled on the back of my neck, and I turned to see Khajee, horrified. Sunday didn’t seem annoyed, as his lips smirked in satisfaction. Also, as I came back to the world, I heard the old man clapping in his wheelchair. When I looked down at Kaminski, his lower lip had ballooned. Worms of blood slithered from each nostril, and the bruise under his eye had split open, oozing.

I got to my feet, unsteady until Khajee draped my one arm across her shoulder. She lifted a bottle of water to my lips, and I drank and spit as we started for the elevator. Blalock got ahead of us and pushed the button. Behind us, the old man applauded and crowed. “Worth every penny,” he told Sunday as the doors opened and we got in. “That boy’s a natural.”

On the ride home, Khajee didn’t say much. There were no congratulations from the back seat, no commentary on how I fought or what I could improve. Even when we were alone in the apartment, with Than sleeping in the back, she was quiet and only spoke to excuse herself to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet creaked. The water shushed in the sink. When she came out, she looked at the carpet and told me, “You should wash up.” Our eyes never met. That’s when I realized just how much blood was on my hands, staining my knuckles red. Under the shower’s hot blast, I scrubbed away the evidence.

Even though I was exhausted from the fight, my adrenaline rush kept me wide awake on the couch, thinking. It’s not like I haven’t made guys bleed before. Our school’s 185-pounder, LeQuan Thompson, used to have a bloody nose every practice. Got so bad he took to wearing a foam face mask attached to his headgear. But what happened with Kaminski felt different. That blood wasn’t incidental. That blood was the point. I knew Coach Gallaher wouldn’t be proud of my sportsmanship. And it wasn’t hard to imagine the way my mom would have looked at me if she’d been there to witness. But none of these people were there in the darkness, just their shadows.

Those spirits haunted me enough so that I couldn’t really sleep, which was getting to be a nightly routine. I thought about Than’s blue sky meditation thing but it just felt too far out. For a while I turned on the TV and watched a basketball game with no volume, but I never could generate a lot of interest in that sport. Too many rules and not enough contact. Finally, I surrendered to my MP3 and listened to Van Halen’s 1984. Midway through “I’ll Wait” (probably my favorite song and way better than “Jump”), Rosie came trotting past me from the bedroom. She sniffed my hand, then padded silently to the door. She growled low, then barked twice.

The knocking came loud and hard, insistent. According to the microwave’s green display, it was 4:15 a.m.

I sprang up and pulled on some gym shorts quick, but somehow Khajee beat me to the door. She took hold of Rosie’s collar and told me, “Open it.”

Grunt filled the doorframe, a perfect rectangle shape himself. When he took a half step back, I could see Sunday’s white limo, both passenger doors open. Grunt aimed a finger at me, then Khajee, then stiffly headed down the stairs. Rosie was snarling, angrier than I’d ever seen her, straining to break free. But Khajee calmed her enough to quickly drag her into the bedroom. A moment later she came out, dressed in street clothes, and I asked her, “What’s this about?”

As she brushed past me, she said, “Just come on. Lock the door.”

I ended up in the back seat with Sunday, who seemed wide awake and alert despite the hour. He didn’t talk until we’d reached the highway, which was nearly empty except for a few tractor trailers hauling freight. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he tossed on my lap. “Typically I pay Ray and he pays you. But this first time, I wanted to do it this way, just so you’re clear on the source of the money. He’s already got his cut.”

I split the envelope’s top and peered in. The highway lights flashed down into a thick stack of crisp twenties.

Sunday leaned across the big back seat, bringing his face close to mine. “Eddie,” he said, “some men have a propensity for violence. It’s a talent, a gift even. Certainly your father had it, and from what I’ve seen and heard, I think it’s a good bet you inherited it.”

“My father?” I said.

Casually he leaned back. “This talent makes you valuable to a man like me. You’re an asset. But I have to trust you and your loyalty. Can I count on you, Eddie?”

“What do you think you know about my father?”

“Quite a bit actually. I know that he could be counted on. I know that he, like you, was an inflictor of pain.”

“So my father used to work for you?”

“Not so much for me as with me. We were partners of a sort. When we started most of our loans went to the less fortunate. I supplied the bankroll and handled the numbers. Your father —”

I held up a hand. “I can guess what he was in charge of.” My eyes fell on the back of Grunt’s boxy head.

We passed over the Susquehanna on 81 South and took the first exit, down into Enola. I could tell Khajee was listening closely in the front seat, though she remained silent. We drove along the houses lining the west shore. All their lights were out. Grunt turned into the rail yard.

Sunday said, “Your father was passionate but impulsive. He let emotions cloud his judgment and got sloppy, careless. I’ve made a career by being a cautious man. That means I exercise a lot of control over my interests, especially my employees. Can you understand this?”

Grunt bumped us over some tracks. I nodded to Sunday. He pinched at the end of his white beard, curling it down into a peak. “So you’ll understand my concern when, earlier tonight, you questioned my instructions?”

“The guy was practically out cold,” I said. “Anybody could see he was through.”

Sunday bristled. We approached a handful of cars parked right along the rail line, in the shadows of a boxcar. Grunt pulled in and turned off the ignition, but didn’t open the door.

Sunday patted my leg. “Here’s the thing, Kid. I have an expanding organization and it’s easy to see a place for you in it. I see potential. But you’ve got to understand that this is my world, so we go by my rules.”

I nodded.

“Say it,” he ordered, squeezing my leg till it hurt.

“Your world,” I said with a shrug. “Your rules.”

This brought a smile to his face. “Wonderful. I’m glad we could come to an agreement. Let’s seal our new deal.”

At this, Grunt got out and opened Sunday’s door. I guessed that meant I should go too, so I got out and followed him to the boxcar, where the door was slid back and a short ladder was propped up. I felt Khajee right behind me.

Inside the boxcar a half dozen figures stood waiting. A few were holding flashlights, and in the bubbling light, I could see Santana, Maddox, Dominic, and a couple others I didn’t recognize. One of them held up a phone with a tiny white light shining, and I realized he was recording.

Bahadur stepped to the edge of the shadows but not into the light enough that I could see his face. I only knew it was him by his bulky shape. I heard him make an exaggerated sniff of the air and he said, “Hey Baby Blue. I told you guys I smelled fresh meat.”

So this was the deal, I thought, an initiation where I take a beating. I was okay with some hazing, knowing they wouldn’t go too hard with me having a fight on the schedule, but I was worried about Khajee. Surely they wouldn’t hurt her?

Then I heard a groan from the far corner, which was pitch-black. The others aimed their flashlights, and I was surprised to find some guy huddled on the floor. He was middle-aged and balding, just a crown of hair around his head. In boxers and a white tank top, he cowered. His face was streaked with sweat and tears and boxcar dirt. “Mr. Sunday,” he said, sniffling. “Let me explain.”

Sunday folded his hands calmly. “The time for explanations has passed, Leonard. Best now if you just shut the hell up.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“A man who thought he could live by his rules in my world. He’s about to learn an important life lesson. Bahadur, the bat please.”

Badder extended an arm to offer me a wooden bat with the handle wrapped in gray duct tape. He didn’t let go of it right away, forcing me to tug it from his thick hands. The wood felt heavy, and the head rested on the floor. Leonard shoved with his heels, pressing into his corner. He tightened into a fetal tuck.

“Not his face,” Sunday told me. “He’s in sales, and we wouldn’t want him to miss work. At least, not too much.” Behind me, the others laughed. I glanced back and saw Khajee, in the tip of a triangle of moonlight angling through the open door. At her side, Grunt gripped her bicep.

I looked at Leonard and asked, “What did he do?”

Sunday said, “It’s a mistake to burden yourself with too much information. All you need to know is that I desire for this to happen. I need you to do it. And if you don’t, Grunt here will shoot him in the left kneecap. So don’t think you’d be doing the guy any favors.”

I tightened my grip and raised the bat, resting it on my shoulder as I entered the darkened corner. I was thinking that maybe I could pound the floor, or try to hit the wall and Leonard’s body at the same time, to take some of the edge off the blows. But then as I neared him, I inhaled and caught a pungent odor. Badder said, “Oh damn. That’s just disgraceful. Miserable puke’s gone and pissed himself.”

I remembered Harrow’s first words to me. You poor baby. Let’s get you cleaned up.

“Quit crying,” I growled at Leonard. “Take it like a man.”

Even as I said that line, I recognized where I’d first heard it, and my mind flashed red and the bat didn’t feel heavy at all. It went weightless in my fists as I brought it down on Leonard, again and again and again.