Jack peeked over Tony’s shoulder. “Gonna invite me in?”
“Fuck you, pal.”
Tony Katt stood his ground, his body a road map of personal insecurities. All those badass jailhouse tattoos on his chest-Nordic maidens and skulls and swastikas- couldn’t cover the insecurities of a big guy with a little pecker.
Neither did the tats Katt had added since becoming champ. Friedrich Nietzsche covered one shoulder, his impassive face above the philosopher’s best-known quotation: “That which does not destroy us makes us stronger.” Having Freddy Nietzsche on his shoulder probably made Katt feel like an intellectual or something, but Jack had no idea what insecurities the tattoo on Katt’s other shoulder stroked. He couldn’t understand why the heavyweight champion of the world would want the smiling face of Colonel Harlan Sanders, the Kentucky Fried Chicken king, etched on his hide, let alone what bizarre personal kink had driven him to add the famous slogan: “Finger Lickin’ Good.”
You’d have to buy the Tony Katt Cliffs’ Notes to figure that one out, and Jack didn’t want to pony up the bucks. So he left it alone and got back to business.
“Tony, I really want this to be friendly,” Jack said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Look at this.” Katt gesticulated wildly in the direction of the broken windows. “Look what you did to my fucking house.”
“I wanted to get your attention. I wanted to let you know I’m serious. I wanted to be sure that when I ask you a question, you’ll give me a straight answer.”
“Fuck you, man. You’d better get out of here. Right now. Or I’ll-”
“Don’t tell me you’ll call the cops, Tony. I know you won’t do that. And don’t tell me you’ll call the corporate headhunters at Skull Island. Because if you do that I’ll have to call my corporate headquarters. And I work for Freddy Gemignani over at the Casbah. You know about Freddy, don’t you?”
“He came to one of my fights. Sure. I met the wop. But I don’t see-”
“You don’t need to see, Tony. All you need to do is give me a straight answer.”
“About what?”
“About a guy named Harold Ticks.”
Katt jerked like someone had hit him in the ankles with a hatchet.
“This conversation is over,” he said.
Then the baddest man on the planet retreated into the gym, cussing a blue streak. He didn’t sound the way he did on television. He wasn’t talking like a cut-rate Don King. He sounded like a convict who was about to take it hard from a guard who had his number.
Jack followed the heavyweight through the broken window. “About this Harold Ticks.”
“I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“Yes, you do. He’s a thief. He stole something from me, and I want it back-”
“Look, I don’t care if he stole the steam off your shit. I’m telling you I don’t know any fucking Harold Ticks.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “You had your chance.”
Jack’s black T-shirt was loose around his waist. There was a reason for that. He reached behind his back and beneath the shirt, and his hand reappeared holding a Colt Python.
The gun was his ace in the hole. His last chance. Because if a Colt Python shoved under his nose didn’t get Katt’s shorts in a serious bunch, nothing would.
“Harold Ticks,” Jack said. “Tell me where he is or you’re gonna have a big problem.”
“Calm down, man.” Katt’s lips trembled.
Jack cocked the pistol. “Harold Ticks. You remember. He was your saddle pal in Corcoran State. The way I heard it, he was the stud and you were the-”
They stood there for a moment, trying hard not to blink. Broken glass all around, but the china shop bit hadn’t worked. Jack could see that. The moment had passed and then some. Tony Katt wasn’t intimidated anymore. He’d slammed a lid on his fear.
Now he was starting to boil.
Jack glanced around the gym. He hated this kind of place. Everything was new. Hi-tech. Sanitized.
There was only one other way to play it.
Jack nodded toward the boxing ring. “If you won’t give me an answer,” he said, “I guess I could always beat one out of you.”
Katt smiled his baddest man on the planet smile. “You tangle with me, runt, you’d better pack a lunch.”
Jack took off his T-shirt. Katt made a point of laughing. “Looks like you’ve been enjoying the good life, Baddalach.”
“Lately I’ve been eating a lot of donuts.”
Katt tapped his forehead. “Some knot you’ve got there. Someone take after you with a ball bat or something?”
“No. I got butted with a machine gun.” Jack pointed to the bruise on his left shoulder. “This one’s from a bat, though.”
“You should take it easy, Dad.”
“Usually I do. I’m retired.”
“That’s why I’m going to be merciful.” Katt threw a pair of sixteen-ounce training gloves to Jack, pillows that wouldn’t hurt a consumptive kid. “I promise I’ll go easy.”
Jack tossed the gloves aside. “Don’t do me any favors.”
“Okay. It’s your call, champ.”
“Make it easy on yourself. How about some ten-ouncers?”
“Owww. . Jack, you are a brave boy. I guess a couple of testosteronic terrors such as ourselves don’t need any stinking headgears, either. Huh?”
“Unless you’re worried about that pretty little nose of yours.”
“I’ll be okay.” Katt tossed a pair of ten-ounce gloves Jack’s way, then selected one for himself. Jack wrapped his hands with protective bandages while Katt shadowboxed in the ring. The Tiger was slow, even for a heavyweight. Ponderous. Like Godzilla on Quaaludes.
But Godzilla was dangerous. One swat of his tail and half of Tokyo crumbled, ’ludes or no ‘ludes.
Jack climbed between the ropes and pulled on the gloves. They were red leather with white labels around the wrists that bore the name of the manufacturer.
“Reyes,” Jack said, reading the label.
Great. Jack had worn Reyes gloves the night a guy named Sugar Ray Sattler cut him to ribbons and took his title. The brand had always been bad luck for Jack Baddalach.
“Puncher’s gloves.” Katt smiled, throwing a series of short hooks in the air. “You said that I should make it easy on myself.”
“I guess I did.”
“You want rounds? This ring has a computer set-up. I can activate a clock from my corner. The computer will ring the bell and everything.”
“Let’s just do it the old-fashioned way. Come to scratch and let fly.”
“Suits me.”
They slipped mouthpieces between their lips-Katt’s was custom-made, while Jack’s was a gum-buster straight out of the package.
Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Not when they were calling out the heavyweight champion of the world. At least Katt hadn’t given Jack a mouthpiece with another guy’s slobber on it.
Katt rang an imaginary bell. “Ding ding.”
The heavyweight lumbered forward. Jack shook out his arms and bopped back and forth from one leg to the
