snapped Underman's head straight back. His body turned to jelly and he slid off the toilet.
Valentine left him lying on the bathroom floor to think about his future.
The next fight turned out to be the real thing and let Valentine forget his troubles for a little while. The bout was a twelve-round light heavyweight contest for one of the alphabet-soup championship belts. The challenger-a Compton kid named Benny 'Lightning' Gonzalez-had more talent than experience and a murderous right hand. His opponent, champion Barry 'the Blarney Stone' Ross, had started his career kickboxing in Europe, switched to the sweet science, and won his first thirty fights, knocking out all. It was a classic match-up, boxer versus brawler, age versus experience.
'Something you and I can relate to,' Nick said.
As fights went, it was pure drama, with each man pressing the action only to have the other come roaring back. First Gonzalez was ahead, then Ross; then Gonzalez charged back; then Ross asserted himself. When the final bell sounded, both men were still standing, and the crowd rose, cheering itself hoarse.
Valentine had lost his voice in the eighth during one of Gonzalez's furious attempts to finish Ross off, and he stomped his feet and whistled. As the scorecards were read and Ross's arm was raised in triumph, Nick screamed at Ross's corner.
'Who says white guys can't fight?'
A tuxedoed announcer climbed through the ropes. Mike in hand, he introduced the boxing luminaries at ringside, the names spanning several decades. Over the PA system, gospel music was being played, the singer the great Mahalia Jackson.
'It's part of Holyfield's contract,' Nick explained. 'Gotta play gospel music before every fight. He says it inspires him. Personally, I wish he'd tone down the religious stuff.'
'You think it's a put-on?'
'Naw,' Nick said. 'He's religious. I just think it's silly. After every bout, he thanks God for letting him win. Do you really think God gets some kind of joy out of him turning a guy's face into a pizza?'
'Probably not.'
'I'm hungry. Want anything?'
'No, thanks. Mind if I borrow your cell phone?'
'Sure,' said Nick as he handed over his phone and left. Taking a scrap of paper with Bill Higgins's cell number on it from his wallet, Valentine punched in the numbers. His friend answered from a bar, shouting to be heard over the televised highlights of the Ross-Gonzalez fight. 'I'm not talking to you,' Higgins said, sounding drunk.
'Why not?'
'Because you're holding out, that's why. I show you the police evidence and you suddenly clam up.'
Valentine heard real anger in Bill's voice. He wanted to explain that he had his reasons, but he knew that would only upset his friend more. He tried another tack.
'I've got a hot tip for you,' Valentine said.
'Sure you do,' Higgins said sarcastically.
Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, Valentine said, 'Felix Underman hired Little Hands Scarpi to kill Frank Fontaine.'
Higgins's tone changed. 'You can prove this?'
'I sure can.'
'Where's Underman now?'
'Probably trying to get out of town.'
'Where are you?'
'I'm at Caesars with Nick.'
Higgins belched into the phone. 'I hate you.'
'I'm sure it's nothing personal,' Valentine replied.
Nick returned with a bag of peanuts, which he shared, along with the latest line from Caesars' sports book.
'They're giving even money inside,' he said breathlessly. 'Can you believe that? I put ten grand on Holyfield. You'd better hurry before they stop taking bets.'
'I don't bet on sports,' Valentine replied.
Nick looked at him like he was an alien.
'It makes you root for the wrong reason,' Valentine explained.
'How so?'
'There's a difference between wanting someone to win and wanting someone to win because you've got money on them.'
'Betting on Holyfield is different,' Nick said.
'How so?'
'Holyfield's a great fighter who has never broken the law. How many boxers can you say that about these days? By betting on him, you're supporting him. Trust me: He'll know what the odds are before he steps in that ring. Fighters always do.'
Valentine found Nick's argument oddly appealing. He'd always liked Holyfield, and those feelings turned into adulation the night Holyfield had dethroned Mike Tyson. You could attribute his victory to many things, but what it had boiled down to was a decent guy fighting a not-so-decent guy. And the decent guy won. It was sweet redemption for every person who believed in playing by the rules.
'All right,' he told his host. 'I'll do it.'
Following Nick's instructions, Valentine entered the casino and sifted his way to Caesars' sports book. It was a large, windowless room with cages for bets and a big electronic board that flashed the odds. He got on the end of a long line. As he waited, he watched the odds change. It was like bingo-pick the right combination and win a prize. Five had always been his lucky number and he checked the odds of Holyfield's winning in that many rounds. Thirty to one. He extracted a crisp C-note from his wallet.
The line inched ahead. As if by magic, the big board turned into a digital TV screen. Holyfield and the Animal were in the ring being introduced by the announcer. When the announcer was done, a bloated Wayne Newton look-alike belted out the national anthem. Reaching the betting cages, Valentine saw that the singer was Wayne Newton.
He threw his money down. 'Holyfield in five.'
'You're in the minority on that one,' the man in the cage informed him.
'Keep it that way.'
Valentine shoved the ticket into his pocket and felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Nick, and his face was flushed.
'Wily just called. He just spoke to Nola,' Nick said excitedly.
'Where is she?'
'Hiding out on the west side of town. She escaped from Fontaine.'
'Did Wily call the police?'
'No. I want to talk to her first.'
'Nick,' Valentine said. 'Call the police.'
'I've got to talk to her,' Nick insisted. 'Come on.'
They jogged through Caesars to the front doors. All gambling had stopped and all eyes were glued to the giant-screen TVs that had been erected throughout the casino. The fight was less than a minute old and Holyfield had already eaten a punch and was lying flat on his back. The Animal stood in a neutral corner, taunting him. The champ staggered to his feet on the count of eight.
'There goes my hard-earned dough,' Nick lamented. 'Come on Evander, you lousy bum!'
Valentine found himself thinking the same thing and realized he was more concerned about his C-note than Holyfield's health. He took the bet ticket from his pocket and tore it into pieces. They left the casino and got into Nick's golf cart.
'You've got to call the police,' Valentine said as Nick sped them up the Strip.
'No, I don't,' Nick replied.
'Nola's a fugitive. Knowing where she's hiding makes you an accomplice. That's a felony.'
Nick gave him a sideways glance.
