“No.” Eddie Kuntz shook his head. “He won't fight Twil
ley. Twilley's got his number. You know how some guys
have another guy's number no matter who's the meanest?
Doviak tried his shit the first night after Twilley bought this
place, and Twilley made him back down just by lookin' at
him and talkin
’.
I seen Twilley do it other times too. To
Doviak and to some of the other boomers that come in here.
Twilley has their number.”
Harrigan nodded, believing for the first time the story
Duncan Peck had told him. He heard Twilley's voice
again.
“It's for your own good, Albert,” he was saying. “If you
came in looking for a workout, you're going to find more
th
an you can handle.” Twilley's thumb waved over his
shoulder. “My man, Jimmy Flood. He's going to go the dis
tance this year.”
Startled, Harrigan's eyes lashed back toward Jared Baker.
Baker trembled. Harrigan saw it. Baker knew what was coming and he was afraid.
“Who the hell is Jimmy Flood?” Doviak peered past the
barkeeper.
“My new relief man,” Twilley answered nonchalantly.
The big man's scowl softened into a grin as he appraised
Jared Baker. At an inch over six feet and a hundred eighty-
five pounds, Baker was still a full three inches shorter and
sixty pounds lighter than Albert Doviak. Smaller and softer.
And Albert too could see he was nervous.
“You're shitting me, aren't you?” Doviak asked.
“Fifty dollars.”
“Fifty on what?”
“Fifty says he can take you tonight, next week, or next
month, and he can put you down in sixty seconds.”
The bigger man hesitated. “This is fist-fightin', Twilley.
None of that karate crap.”
“Flood wouldn't know karate if it fell on him. He's just
cat quick and he's strong.”
Doviak craned his head for another look at the relief bar
tender. He could see nothing that concerned him. Still, he
was uncertain. “You're saying he can put me down inside a
minute. Does that mean rasslin' and rollin' or does that mean
I stay down and he don't?”
“It means you don't get up until he's back in here tend
ing bar.”
The room was quiet but for a throaty Tanya Tucker num
ber.
“Got his number,” Eddie Kuntz whispered. “Maybe Twil
ley's man got Doviak's number too.” He raised his head.
“I'll take some of that,” he called. “I'm holdin' thirty dollars
I'll put on the new guy.”
Another man, older, leaped at it. “I'll cover Eddie's
dough and I got another twenty on Al.” The bar erupted into
an auction.
“You said fifty bucks?” Doviak asked.
“More if you like.”
“What's in it for him?”
“He needs a tuneup too.”
One more time, Doviak studied the man called Jimmy
Flood. Baker felt the stare but would not meet Doviak's
eyes. Instead, he drifted closer toward the kitchen door and turned his back on Doviak.
“Make it a hundred,” Albert said, rising. “I'll be in the
parking lot.”
The others, except Harrigan, watched him go. Harrigan's attention was locked on Jared Baker and on a shudder that
moved in ripples across his back. And then Harrigan real
ized that what he saw was more than trembling. He did not
know what it was. Only that it was more.
At last Baker reached behind him and pulled at the
strings of his white apron. Lifting it above his head, he
turned, first facing the door and the dwindling crowd of men
now jamming through it, then looking squarely into the eyes
of Connor Harrigan.
Harrigan's last breath jammed in his chest as he saw
Baker's face. Then Baker turned away, easily lifting the
heavy, hinged gate of the bar and flowing, it seemed, toward
the door of the Riverview Grill.
Harrigan was thunderstruck. Transfixed, he sat in the al
most abandoned bar waiting for the strength that had
drained from his legs. The man who'd looked at him, the
man now gone outside, the explosive and violent man who'd
been so visibly frightened only moments before was, by
God and to hell with everybody else, no longer Jared Baker.
And the man he became knew Connor Harrigan. He knew
him!
Recovering, Harrigan braced to rise from his chair and
follow the excited sounds outside. A clink of glass told him
he was not alone. Twilley stood half-hidden behind the cash
register, calmly wiping the varnished surface of the bar. Har
rigan sat back, studying this man who had once been Ben
Coffey. The man who had Doviak's number and who turned
guns into rats. He watched as Twilley worked his way
towa
rd Harrigan's end of the bar. There was more than calm
in his expression, Harrigan thought. There was satisfaction.
Howard Twilley had just accomplished something. Some
thing had been set up and made to happen. Harrigan re
membered the comforting hand on the shoulder of a lost and
worried Jared Baker. And Harrigan knew. He knew in a flash
of intuition what was happening here tonight. It was a test
ing ground. A training arena. A match with a ranking con
tender. And here was his promoter, his corner man, wiping a
bar with no shadow of concern about the outcome of a blood
brawl fifty feet away.
He saw something else as well. Just a flicker, really, when the satisfaction on Twilley's face faded for a moment. It was so out of place and out of context that he would have missed
it had it not been for his memory of the call to Sonnenberg
that Peck had intercepted: “I've had it, Doc. I want to use it.
Soon, Doc. I mean it.”
What Harrigan saw, he was convinced, was a profound and crushing loneliness in the soul of Howard Twilley.
Outside, a sudden silence fell, and the shadow passed
from Twilley's face. He turned in Harrigan's direction to watch the second hand of a Coors Beer clock that hung on the wall behind the game table. Twilley nodded to himself
and snapped his fingers. He looked like a horse trainer
clocking a furlong sprint. That was it, Harrigan realized.
Jared Baker wasn't here to hide any more than he'd been
hiding in the Sonnenberg compound these past four months.
Nor had he been schooled there just to beat up bullies in
midwestern shot-and-a-beer joints. By whatever means and
for whatever reason, this new Jared Baker had been created
by Marcus Sonnenberg. Jared Baker now and Benjamin
Coffey before him. And the good Lord knows how many
others.
Harrigan felt a draft and turned toward the opening door.
It was Baker. The real Baker. Alone, he stepped inside, shut
ting the door against the murmur of stunned and shaken
voices behind him.
“How did you do?” Twilley asked, his voice more caring
than curious.
Baker hesitated. “Someone said twenty-eight seconds.”
“How bad?”
”I. .. was able to hold him back ” Baker answered. “If I
hadn't, Doviak might have been .. ”
Twilley raised a hand to silence him, gesturing toward
Connor Harrigan with his head. Who the hell is “him”? Har
rigan wondered.
“Congratulations, champ.” Harrigan waved and forced a
smile. He stepped fully into the light toward Baker, wonder
ing as he did so what Albert must be looking like.
“Thank you . . ” Baker faltered.
'Td like to shake your hand,” Harrigan said, the tension
he felt beginning to drain. “Also, good luck in the tourna
ment.”
Baker took the extended hand and gripped it weakly.
There was a shyness, an embarrassment, on Baker's face.
But there was no recognition. This Jared Baker did not know
Connor Harrigan. This Jared Baker didn't know him from Adam.
Harrigan stayed for the first three elimination rounds of the Tough Man Tournament. Baker won his first fight with just
three quick blows of his left hand. Some insisted it was a
single punch. Without a replay, it was hard to tell. When his
opponent, a red-haired trucker named Doyle, collapsed
against the lower rope, the opening bell was still echoing in
Harrigan's ears.
In Baker's second and third fights he went the full three
rounds. He seemed to be holding back, taking some
punches, slipping others, but never reacting to the other
man's blows or to the crowd or the referee. He seemed to see
nothing, feel nothing, except the presence of the other
fighter. At the sound of the bell, he would lock his eyes upon
those of his opponent. Seconds later, Harrigan saw, the other
man would seem terrified. But Baker would bide his time. Near the end of each third and final round, Twilley would
call Baker's name and Baker would strike. His blows, which
avoided the face and head, were astonishingly precise and quick. Almost surgical in their artistry. A jab would be an
swered with a blur of an uppercut against the muscle on the underside of the jabbing arm. The truncheoned arm would
collapse, useless. The opponent's right arm would rise in de
fense, and again its soft tissue would be crushed. A third
blow at the base of the ribcage would leave the man gasping
and helpless as the bell sounded. Baker, it was clear, could
destroy any of these hardhats at will. It was terrible to watch.
By the second fight, the crowd did not cheer Baker. A few
booed nervously.
The man in the ring was not Baker. Of that, Harrigan was
certain. The man in the ring was the man who knew him in
Twilley's bar a few days before. Yet Baker was there. It was
Baker, or Jimmy Flood, who was introduced to the crowd,
and Baker who received the referee's instructions. It was a
tense and nervous Baker, a reluctant Baker, who dropped his
eyes when his first opponent tried to glare him down with a Sonny Liston scowl. The second made no such attempt. The third dropped his own eyes. And it was Baker in the corner
between rounds. It was, at least, until Twilley wiped his face at the start of a round and again at the conclusion. Harrigan
knew, by that time, what must have been happening under
the oversize yellow bath towel Twilley used. He'd almost
seen it in the bar but for Baker's back being turned. Harri
gan knew. But he could not yet bring himself to believe it.
On the night of the semifinal round, after cracking the
ribs and collarbone of a sandlot football player at least
twenty years younger, Baker took a long shower and waited
for the crowd to leave the arena. A television crew had al
ready begun laying cables for the taping of the final round. Harrigan waited in the shadows of the parking lot.
When Baker emerged, Twilley trailing well behind him,
Harrigan thought he saw a curious lightness in his step. An
air of relief, perhaps, although odd with the next night's final
still to be faced. Harrigan began to hear the familiar buzz in
his head. But before he could make sense of it, the sound of
running feet swept the warning aside. Two men were run
ning. They came from another set of shadows, and they ran
not at Harrigan but at Baker, a length of heavy chain in each
one's hands. Harrigan crouched and reached toward his pis
to
l but froze in that position. For there was Twilley, hanging
back, arms folded, as the two burly men advanced upon
Baker. Harrigan tried to see what was happening, but his
view was obscured by a scattering of cars. He could hear,
however. He heard moans and grunts and the rake of steel
chain against pavement, and by the time he found a better vantage, there was Baker walking quickly away. His tutor
walked with him, smiling.
Harrigan could not know why the attack on Baker took
place. Or who the men with chains might have been. He
could only listen to his instincts. The two men, he supposed,
might have been friends of Albert Doviak or of Baker's other three victims. But somehow he doubted it, given
Howard Twilley's role as an amused spectator. Another test,
perhaps? It seemed hardly needed. Perhaps to keep him on edge? Harrigan thought. To keep him what else? Vigilant?
Moving? Moving is what his instincts answered. And then
he remembered the television cables and was sure. Baker
would never let himself be taped. He would have to disap
pear before the final round.