True Detective

'Does it show?'

'You're damn near shaking, son. Ease up.'

'I just want this for him, that's all. He deserves this one.'

Eliot shook his head, smiled. 'That isn't the way it works. He's going to have to earn that title, in that ring, in just a few minutes… but I think he can do it.'

'Is that who I think it is?' I said, pointing discreetly.

'Your old buddy Nitti? Sure. Who else? Canzoneri's got a big following in the Italian community.'

'Nitti's Sicilian.'

'Don't set technical. The mob guys are big Canzoneri boosters.'

'Do they own him?'

Eliot shrugged. 'Not that I know of. Just ethnic pride.'

'I thought Nitti was in Florida.'

-

'He's pretty much living down there right now, yeah. But he had another matter in court to attend to, so he's back for a few weeks.'

'That's Dr. Ronga, his father-in-law, next to him, you know.'

'He's staying with Ronga, I hear. It's nice to have a doctor around the house, when you're recovering from bullet wounds. Did you see who's over on the other side?'

'Who?'

'Mayor Kelly and his boss Nash and bunch of other big political muckety-mucks.'

'I'm so impressed I could shit.'

'Well, they're here rooting for Barney, no doubt. Kelly called him 'Chicago's pride and joy' the other day.'

'Yeah, well, I guess it's all right for 'em to stick around, then.'

The bell sounded and the last of the prelims was over; there had been no knockout, but one of the fighters was battered and bloodied. From the way my stomach was jumping, you'd think I was the one climbing in that ring next.

And a few minutes later the ring announcer was yelling into his microphone: 'In this corner, ladies and gentlemen. Tony Canzoneri, world's lightweight champion.'

Canzoneri, dark, moonfaced, neck and shoulder muscles bull-like, grinned at the audience, clasping his hands over his head in a prediction of victory; he got a good hand. Nitti, Ronga, and a brace of bodyguards did their share.

'In that corner, Barney Ross, his worthy opponent- '

And the thousands of friends Barney had in the arena- myself included- went berserk. Maybe the house was only half-full, but it sounded packed when Barney's cheer went up; he waved at the crowd, grinning shyly, looking almost embarrassed. He caught my eye and grinned a little more naturally and nodded at me. I smiled, nodded back.

'Barney's faster than Canzoneri,' Eliot said. 'That's going to make the difference.'

'Could,' I said. 'But pound for pound, Canzoneri's the hardest-hitting puncher in boxing. I hope Barney can take it.'

Eliot nodded; we both knew that Barney, despite a hard-fought, impressive record, which had earned him this shot, had never had an opponent in the champ's league.

When the bell sounded. Canzoneri, wanting to get it over with quick, rushed out to meet the cool, cautious Barney midring, and swung a wild right, then another one, both of which Barney ducked so easily it was as if Canzoneri had done it on purpose, to prove Barney was, as reputed, one of the hardest fighters to land a glove on in the business.

Then Barney tore into him, not playing it at all safe, as if to prove he didn't believe Canzoneri's reputation as a killer-puncher; suddenly it was like Barney was champ, and wanted to put this pretender away as fast as possible.

And by the end of the third round, Barney had a nice early lead. Canzoneri landed some, including a series of lefts and rights to the head that made Barney's cheering section groan and wince en masse; but Barney was landing more often, and usually staying out of harm's way.

Maybe a little bit too much.

'Barney's too careful tonight,' I told Eliot, having to push it to be heard over the crowd noise. 'He's missed a couple perfect opportunities to really put that guy away.'

Eliot nodded, leaned toward me, and said, 'Yeah, but he's taken the hardest stuff Canzoneri's got to give, and it isn't slowing him up any.'

But Canzoneri was a champ, no doubt about it; and in the next round, he took command, and started working on Barney around the eyes. By the fifth round. Barney was bleeding. And slowing down.

So was Canzoneri. The two of them boxed, trying to outpoint each other, clinching often; they'd been trading blows like flyweights, but hitting like heavyweights, and they were getting tired- and saving up for the final rounds.

Then in the ninth round, and I don't know if he'd been playing possum or not, Barney came alive, turned into a