Like the boxing wits said: Shabazz left his fight in the dressing room. When the bell rang for round one, the champ had nothing left.
Two rounds passed before the Tiger figured it out. When the bell rang for the third, he knew his time had come.
A lot of people said it was a lucky punch, but perfect punch was a better description. The Tiger landed a right uppercut that caught the old champ in the face as he went into his patented bob-and-weave. It was a punch that exploded Alexis Shabazz’s nose, nearly driving the bone directly into his brain.
One punch, and Tony Katt had everything he had ever desired. The heavyweight championship of Planet Earth. A mansion in Las Vegas. A showgirl in his bed. And a bigger dick, too.
Life was good.
And sometimes life was one large pain in the ass.
Porschia handed Tony a glass of lukewarm booze.
In such moments, Tony tended to forget himself. And
“I don’t know. I mean, the ice-maker is broken. And whoever emptied the ice trays didn’t fill them up.”
“Well. . Christ. I can’t drink a
“Don’t yell at me. It’s not my fault. This is your house, not mine. If the ice-maker is broken, it’s up to you to get it fixed.”
“It’s not my fucking house. It belongs to the casino. And even if it was my house, it’s not up to me to worry about ice-makers. Jesus, Porschia, I’m the heavyweight champion of the whole fucking planet.”
“Yeah. And right now you’re acting like a heavyweight asshole.”
“Hey-”
“Sure, but-”
“And you didn’t fill up the ice trays before we went to bed.”
“I’m the baddest man on the planet!”
“And I’m understudy to the lead dancer in the
“Listen. . baby-”
“Don’t give me that
“Yeah. You jiggle your hooters for a robot monkey and a roomful of idiots who just blew next month’s rent on the dollar slots. Move over, Madame Curie.”
“That’s it. We’re finished.”
“Not the first time. Won’t be the last.”
“You’re wrong about that, Tony. I won’t be back. You can find some other girl to play tugboat with you.”
“I’m sure you’ll land on your feet, Porschia. Those casino boys at Skull Island will watch out for you.”
“You bastard-”
“Who knows: you might even get lucky.” Tony grinned behind his Ray-Bans. “Maybe this time they’ll let you move in with the robot monkey.”
The Tiger boiled with anger. Fuck it. He phoned his trainer. “Get your ass over here. Bring some sparring partners. No chickenshits. Anybody who climbs into the ring today better be prepared to earn his money.”
He pulled on a pair of shorts and went to his private gym, a glass and oak vision that was a long way from the canvas and mildew sty where he’d first learned to box.
Everything here was new. Bright sunlight poured into the room from the plateglass windows that constituted the west wall. Chrome and leather gleamed. The Tiger wrapped his immense paws. Then he punched up some hardcore on the stereo system and slammed his fists into the heavy bag.
In Fresno, the heavy bag was filled with sawdust. Hitting it was like hitting a cement wall. The bag in Tony’s gym was filled with water, which was much easier on his hands.
The bag had a second benefit. Hitting it excited Tony. It was like hitting a human. He could feel his fists sink into the soft leather the same way they sank into a man’s belly when he turned up the intensity.
The Tiger’s punches thudded against leather. Jabs and hooks and uppercuts, thrown one at a time as the champ warmed up. Soon the big bag began to swing on a long chromed chain as combinations battered its skin. Three punches, four punches, coming faster and faster as the Tiger found his rhythm.
Tony loved it. The rat-tat-tat of his punches, the chain creaking and groaning and screaming like a woman. These were satisfying sounds. The Tiger concentrated on them, fists flailing, shoulders and back knotted, hips and legs torquing blows that could drive a man’s nose bone into his brain.
Sweat rolled off him. Hot droplets pattered against the floor. His muscles were molten steel. His fists drummed leather. Wham, bam, thank you-
Another sound slashed the Tiger’s reverie.
The sound of shattering glass. Sharp slivers rained down from one of the large plateglass windows on the west wall. The Tiger barely leaped out of the way as deadly shards sliced divots in the oak floor.
Hot desert air swept into the room, overpowering the state-of-the-art air-conditioning as easily as the Tiger had overpowered Alexis Shabazz. The Tiger rushed to the broken window, his boxing shoes crunching over broken glass.
A man stood alone on the ninth tee. He didn’t look like he belonged there. He wore a black T-shirt and black jeans, and he had a baseball bat instead of a golf club.
The stranger tossed a golf ball into the air and hit it in the direction of the heavyweight champion of the world.
NINE
Jack put the wood to another golf ball and the self-described baddest man on the planet jumped away from the windows just in time to avoid a busted-glass shower.
Jack figured he’d made his point. He tossed the baseball bat into the bushes and climbed the fence that separated the golf course from Tony Katt’s mansion.
Well, that description was a little short of accurate-the mansion didn’t really belong to Katt. It was a corporate cage, a way for the casino fat cats who had signed the heavyweight champion to a multi-million dollar three-fight deal to keep an eye on their investment. As soon as that investment soured, Katt would be out on his ass. He wasn’t the first boxer to live at this address. He wouldn’t be the last.
Jack twisted over the top of the fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. He crossed a picture- perfect lawn and climbed a staircase that lead to a terra-cotta patio, just in time to see Tony Katt charge through the big empty space that a few moments before had been a window.
“Hey, Tony. I’ve been meaning to drop by.” Jack held out his right hand, ready to shake. “I’m Jack Baddalach. I used to be the light-heavyweight champion of the world.”
“What the fuck?” Katt stared at Jack’s hand as if it were a turd. “What’s the matter with you, man? Are you a fucking lunatic or something?”
Jack smiled at the bruiser. Katt didn’t look so much like the baddest man on the planet. Not right now. Right now he looked like a really confused bull that had been beaten to the ubiquitous china shop by a rampaging rhinoceros.
That was just the kind of expression Jack wanted to see on Katt’s face. A guy like Katt was used to playing the bully. Bullies couldn’t handle it when someone took the bad boy play away from them. Especially bullies who happened to be boxers. For reference check Sugar Ray Leonard defeating Roberto Duran in their famous
