Deal with the Dead by Les Standiford

Author:Les Standiford [Standiford, Les]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction / Mystery & Detective / General
ISBN: 9781615953103
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2011-04-17T16:00:00+00:00

Ten years ago, himself seventeen, the same person, but a different life—or where his life had turned, more like it…

Not a gym at all, but a rinky-dink all-purpose auditorium in Cordele, Georgia, a building three quarters of a century old, the air stale, the lighting dim, the padding of the rickety row seats thin and tattered. There was a gray-looking movie screen hanging lopsided high in the flies above, and a set of wood-backed basketball goals set up on either end of the creaking stage, which, presuming basketball had actually been played there, would make for a court little more than half the size of regulation.

The ring, scaled down by a foot in each direction by a promoter eager to encourage more close-quarters action, had been erected squarely between the goals and was set out close to the edge of the stage, above a boarded-over orchestra pit. Folding chairs had been set up to create some semblance of a ringside. Anyone sitting too long in the front rows was sure to develop a monumental neckache, staring practically straight up at the fights, but the seats were full there, as were most of the others in the auditorium, and no one had complained.

There had been half a dozen bouts before this main event, moving up steadily through the weight classes, if not in level of talent. The last fight had ended when an eager light heavyweight, a farm boy from Damascus, had lost his mouthpiece, then stepped into a head-butt from his opponent. There were still teeth scattered across the blood-streaked canvas out there. From the corner where he sat, Russell Straight could see them glinting yellow as corn kernels.

“This is when it happens,” came the voice at Russell’s ear. “Don’t forget yourself.”

Russell nodded as if he were getting good advice. His so-called trainer, an ancient black man—he’d had to have been old when this place had been built, Russell thought. “Why they wasting money on that fool?” Russell said, staring across the ring at his opponent. A white man from Atlanta, supposed to have been a kick-boxing champ, had all the moves and reflexes of a heavy bag.

“Don’t matter,” said the old man at his ear. He sponged tepid water from a plastic bucket onto Russell’s brow. “Do what you supposed to do.”

The old man was gone then, the pail withdrawn, the stool slipped away beneath him as the bell rang. Scheduled for ten rounds, it would go four. Russell knew why, of course, but it had made him feel better to ask.

He danced out to the center of the ring, feinted, jabbed, stepped back, feeling a fallen tooth grind beneath the sole of his shoe. Just fooling around, waiting for his lumbering opponent to come on, get things over with.

“You ain’t Cassius Clay,” someone yelled from the predominately white audience. Russell smiled. His opponent had finally made it to the center of the ring and pawed a jab his way.

Russell dodged it easily, circled to his left, and fired a jab of his own that snapped the white man’s head back.

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