Blood Game (10 page)

When he turned back to the woman to see if he might not have been imagining her whispered insults, he saw that they were now both smirking.

Suddenly he became self-conscious about the way he moved. He tried to be more purposeful in his motions.

God, he wished there were not so many people out here.

God, he wished it were not so hot out here.

God, he wished he had not agreed to do this.

She took a carriage from the hotel. She liked the smart way the sleek black horse in traces picked up and put down its shoed feet. She liked the smart way the driver cracked his whip just over the horse's back so that the animal wasn't hurt in any way.

She sat back on the tufted blue silk seat and watched the buildings of the business district give way to small frame houses and then to real mansions, with wide stone gates and windbreaks of firs offering privacy.

She was aware that the driver turned back every minute or so for a glance at her. He was smitten, obviously. But he was also leery. He was white and he obviously suspected that she was not. Still, he could not quit staring.

It was hot in the carriage. She fanned herself with a black, Spanish-style hand fan.

Images of her brother filled her mind.

When he was seven.

When he was nine.

When he was dead there in the ring.

The driver was staring at her again. “You all right, ma'am?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You look troubled.”

She smiled. “I am troubled. I'm impressed that you were sensitive enough to notice.”

The man flushed. “It's just your face—well, it's easy to see what's in your soul, is what I'm trying to say.”

“So you believe in the soul?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“A lot of men don't.”

“I was raised Methodist.”

“That's odd.”

“What is, ma'am?”

“So was I.”

“Methodist?”

“Yes. And most people think we're all Baptists.”

“‘Us,' ma'am?”

“Yes. Us.” She paused, giving her word all the dramatic power she could summon. “Coloreds.”

She watched his eyes. She was not disappointed. He looked as if he'd just suffered a sharp kick to the stomach. “You're colored?”

“You mean you didn't guess?”

“No, ma'am.” He sounded miserable.

“You wanted me, didn't you?”

“Ma'am?”

“You desired me, didn't you, until you found out I was colored?”

He turned his head back to the street.

She wasn't sure why she'd wanted to hurt him. It was just this need that came on her from time to time. She needed to feel someone else's hatred sometimes. It revived her, brought her in touch with herself again. The hatred of others was a definition of all the things she could never be, no matter how badly she might want to be. The hatred of others told her very definitely who and what she was.

She said, “I'm sorry I embarrassed you.”

But he wouldn't turn around now. He would take her out to the boxing arena and deposit her and leave as soon as possible.

“I really am sorry,” she said. “You seem like a decent man, and I shouldn't have hurt your feelings.”

The horses stepped smartly forward.

The day was very hot.

She wondered if, in the end, she would have enough courage for what she had ahead of her.

“Do you plan on killing him, Mr. Sovich?”

The kid had red hair and freckles and wore a cheap, loud suit and spoke an octave higher whenever he got nervous, as now. The older reporters gathered in Victor Sovich's dressing room let the kid talk because he was kind of funny to watch.

“Son, that's not a decent thing to ask me.” Victor Sovich winked at the older reporters. “I just go out there and do my job, and if the boy happens to fall and not get back up, there isn't much I can do about that, is there?”

“Do you regret killing those other colored people?”

“Now you're getting serious, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Victor Sovich, bare chested and fitted out with fine leather gloves, smiled toward John T. Stoddard, who stood in the corner. “There's only one type of question Mr. Stoddard has asked me not to answer.”

“What kind is that, sir?”

“The serious kind.”

Several of the older reporters laughed.

But the redheaded kid persisted. “Do you ever get scared?”

“Me?”

“Do you ever think maybe you could be the one who gets killed?”

Sovich offered the onlookers another wink. “Maybe you know something I don't, kid. You think I
should
be scared?”

“No, sir,” the kid said, writing something on the tablet he held out before him. “I just wonder if it ever crossed your mind.”

“Do you have any idea how many fights I've had?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you have any idea how many of those fights I've won?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I've had one hundred two fights and I've won one hundred two fights. Now, does that sound like a reason for me to get scared?”

The kid gulped. He had a huge Adam's apple. “No, sir. I guess not.”

John T. Stoddard nodded to Victor and left the dressing room. He hated Victor's swaggering before the press. Victor swaggered enough as it was.

He felt grateful for the heat and the crowd. The crowd was invigorating.

He walked the aisles between the bleachers, noting how everything was going smoothly, from the vendors to the ice tents. After the “robbery,” he was going to have a great deal of money.

One thing remained. He needed to get his son out of the office. He did not want Stephen there when the shooting started.

He headed back for the office, and it was then he saw Reynolds.

John T. Stoddard knew immediately that he had made a terrible mistake counting on Reynolds. Severe dark rings encircled the lower part of the man's eyes. His entire body seemed to twitch.

John T. Stoddard watched as Reynolds went inside the office building, obviously preparing for the “robbery” later this afternoon.

The door opened and a tall, gray-haired man stood there. “Help you?”

Reynolds couldn't find his voice. “Uh, I was just wondering if there was a toilet in here.”

“There are latrines outside.”

“I just wondered if there was a toilet in here.”

“Afraid we can't help you.”

“All right. Thank you.”

When the door closed, Reynolds fell back against the wall. His chest heaved. His head pounded.

Could he go through with it?

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He should run, hide. He should not be seen anywhere near this office.

But somehow he couldn't move. He tried, but he couldn't.

“Jesus Christ,” a harsh voice said, and when he opened his eyes there was John T. Stoddard. “You're supposed to be a professional.”

He swallowed, wanting to defend his honor. “I am a professional, Mr. Stoddard. A professional thief.”

“It's too late for me to get somebody else. I've got to depend on you.”

“Couldn't I just knock him out?”

“You knock Guild out? Don't be absurd. You'd never get that close.” He shook his head. “Listen, you miserable little bastard. We had an agreement, and I expect you to stick to it. Do you understand?”

“I'm going to be all right.”

“You should see yourself—”

“I'm going to show you that I've got a lot more grit than you think.”

“—pasty white and dark little eyes, and your left hand keeps shaking and—”

Reynolds moved away from the wall. “I said I'm going to show you, Mr. Stoddard. I'm going to show you.”

He wasn't sure what he was talking about and felt he was just babbling, but he was tired of Stoddard's scorn. That was for sure. So now he tried to make himself appear as strong as possible.

“You've got a gun?” Stoddard asked.

“Yes.”

“It's loaded?”

“I'm not a child, Mr. Stoddard.”

“It's loaded?”

“Yes, it's loaded.”

“And you're ready?”

“I'm ready, Mr. Stoddard. Yes, I'm ready.”

“Then don't let me down, Reynolds. Don't let me down.”

“I won't.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

After leaving the building, Reynolds walked over to a latrine and started vomiting. The stuff was orange. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see.

Behind him a hick voice said, “Whooee! Whatever that little guy is drinkin', I don't want no part of!”

Rough male laughter filled Reynolds's ears.

He lurched from the latrine and walked with as much dignity as he could muster back toward the bleachers.

The first money came in a steel box latched with a lock. A hefty man in a three-piece suit and a walrus mustache delivered it. Guild opened the door for him. The man stared down at Guild's .44. “That Stoddard, he don't trust nobody, does he?” the man said. He was laughing.

He brought the box into the office, walked over, and set it on the desk.

“This is Stoddard's son, Stephen,” Guild said, hoping the man would take a hint and not insult the father in front of the son anymore. Guild couldn't help it; he felt sorry for the boy.

“Yeah, I met him,” the man said.

Stephen Stoddard pulled a piece of paper from inside his coat. He dropped to his haunches and held the paper up to the steel box. The paper held the combination to the lock. Stephen worked quickly, deftly. In seconds the lock was open and he was throwing back the lid.

The man whistled. “Your old man is having a good day, kid.”

The box was packed tight with greenbacks.

“This is the biggest haul I've ever seen around these parts,” the man said.

Stephen slammed the lid and latched the box again. He carried it over to the comer and set it on a small desk.

“I'll be back in another hour or so with the next box. It's already half full.” He snorted. “The way them yokels is streamin' in, it may not take another full hour.”

He went to the door. “Your old man said we wasn't to be drinkin' no beer today. That still hold?”

“Yes, it does,” Stephen said.

The man offered them a sour expression and left.

Guild went over to the rolltop desk where he'd been sitting. He put his feet up and laid the .44 in his lap. He took a five-cent cigar from his pocket and lighted it. He watched the way the blue smoke turned the golden dust motes silver.

Stephen went over and stood by the money box. He touched it as if it were the most precious thing he had ever seen.

“Both Dad and Victor are going to make out all right on this one,” Stephen said. “This is the one they've both been waiting for.”

Guild took a drag on his cigar. “I don't think you should be here.”

“What?”

“You're not hired to be a guard. I am.”

“You think I'm afraid?”

“No.”

“You think I couldn't cut it if I had to?”

“No.”

“Then why would you want to get rid of me?”

“Because I've got a funny feeling is all.”

“What kind of funny feeling?”

“The kind of funny feeling this kind of money always gives me.”

“I'm his son.”

“I'm surprised he would want you here.”

“Meaning exactly what, Leo?”

“Meaning if you were my boy, I'd want you out walking around the stands. Putting a good face on things for the public. I wouldn't want you anywhere near the money.”

“Dad trusts me.”

Guild didn't want to say what he thought:
Your dad doesn't care enough about you to move you out of the way.
Instead he said, “Anyplace in particular you'd want to settle?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Anyplace you been thinking of settling when the time comes?”

“I couldn't leave Dad.”

“I mean if something happened and you had to leave your dad. Where would you settle?”

He seemed afraid to even speculate. “I've just never thought about it.” But his quickly averted eyes said that he was lying.

“You ever seen the ocean at Atlantic City?”

“Yes.”

“Beautiful, isn't it? And all those girls on the beach.”

Softly Stephen said, “It's very nice.”

“You ever seen Vermont in autumn? I've never seen anything like the leaves in the hills. Like they're on fire.”

“No, I've never seen them.”

“Or a dairy farm in New Hampshire? The grass gets so green that the black and white cows really stand out against it on a sunny day. And it's so peaceful in the shade—”

“What the hell are you trying to do?”

“Just passing the time.”

“No, you're not.”

Guild sighed. “If you were my boy, you wouldn't be guarding the money, and that's for goddamn sure.” He was angry at the three of them—at Stoddard for using his son this way, at his son for being used, and at himself because he could not seem to let things lie where they were.

“I'm not your son and I'm tired of your running down my dad. I should tell him some of the things you've said.”

He had pushed too far. He had lost the boy. He could not help the kid now because the kid wouldn't let him.

He said, “You should ask for a cut.”

“What?”

“You should ask your old man for a percentage of the take.”

“I know you're trying to help, Leo, and I appreciate it, but you're really talking crazy.”

“You work hard, kid. You deserve a percentage. That way when you're finally ready to leave—”

“You're getting kind of one note.”

Guild stared at him. “You deserve a life of your own, Stephen. You really do.”