"Midnight At Mahoney's Gym"
May. 18th, 2022 09:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Midnight At Mahoney's Gym"
7/28-7/29/2003
I.
A few minutes after one in the afternoon and the air was still muggy from the day before without having had any break overnight. Bane didn't notice. Even in his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, his body was so conditioned by decades of Tel Shai training that he felt comfortable under all but the most extreme weather. He had left his car a few blocks back in a municipal garage and as he turned the corner to 14th Street, he stopped with a twinge of unexpected emotion. He had not seen the weathered wooden door with its fanlight, nor the handpainted sign MAHONEY'S GYM - BOXING AND SELF-DEFENSE, for many years.
The Dire Wolf was not a sentimental man by nature but he had human feelings and now he was held in his tracks by a flash of memory. So long ago. He had been seventeen, living on the streets and sleeping where he could, surviving as a thief and burglar, trusting no one and letting no one get to know him. Even as a child, his inborn enhanced reflexes had helped him survive and even thrive in dangerous conditions. By seventeen, he had amassed a few thousand dollars he kept on him in a grouch bag around his neck. A fight with members of the Winter Snow dojo had been closer than he had liked, and the idea sank in that he could use some training. So he had come here and Liam Mahoney had taken him as a customer.
Shaking off memories like cobwebs, Bane strode up to the door and entered. Not much had changed in almost thirty years. The cigarette machine to the left was gone now, replaced by a soft drink vending machine. The faded posters of Joe Louis and Sonny Liston had been taken away, and in their spots were ads for upcoming matches. But the ammonia used to scrub the floor still struggled to displace stale sweat, and the radio was still playing an all-news station quietly in one corner. In the opposite wall was the door to the locker room and showers; enclosed in one corner was a walled-off section that had been made into Mahoney's office with a door that had a frosted-glass panel reading PRIVATE.
There were free weights and a few mats on the floor, but most of the space was taken up by the ring. It was new, a bigger ring than the one Bane remembered from his youth. Three feet up off the ground, twenty-three feet to each side, the ring looked like it had been put up only a few years earlier. The canvas was bright and unstained. Two men were sparring as Bane entered and he watched them critically. Both were young, in their early twenties, in decent shape. The taller one had curly black hair and wore white trunks with a black stripe. An inch shorter but heavier across the shoulders was a guy with a blond crewcut, wearing solid red trunks. As Bane watched, the two men exchanged tentative jabs and feints, testing each other's reactions, waiting for an opening. And then a familiar abrasive voice rang out.
"What, are you guys on a date? Mix it up. Come on, Tommy, I thought you had some spirit. Move it, move it, you gotta act.. not react!" Mahoney was standing next to the ropes with a bottle of water in his hand. He had aged tremendously since Bane had last seen him, but then he had to be in his late sixties now. Not more than five foot eight, even in the loose sweatshirt and slacks he showed the thin arms and legs and the low potbelly of an old man. The square pugnacious face was weathered, the dark hair was only found behind the ears and across the back of the head, but that hectoring voice was the same.
As the two fighters closed in and started slugging more in earnest, Bane stepped closer. Mahoney saw him from the corner of an eye, grinned and loped over to grab the Dire Wolf by both arms and try to shake him. "I'll be damned, that's the whole truth! Talk about a blast from the past. You look like you've kept in shape, son."
Bane was smiling as much as he ever did, a barely perceptible raising of the corners of the mouth. "I see you're still pushing your boys to get every ounce out of them you can, Mahoney."
"The game doesn't change much," said the old man. "Ah, but you... I've heard wild stories about you. My God, you're kind of an urban legend whether you know it or not."
The Dire Wolf patted the man on the back, not quite hugging but for him it was a remarkably warm gesture. "People exaggerate, you know that," he answered. "I'm just one of a thousand Private Investigators trying to make a dent in the big city."
pg time?"
Bane shook his head and glanced up at the two men in the ring, who had thrown a few more punches and then drawn back again. "Eh, maybe I'm just getting nostalgic as I get older. So, the guy in the white trunks is your fighter, huh?"
"Yeah. Awright, you two, that's enough. Hit the showers and be back tomorrow. Suarez is gonna be using the ring this afternoon. Tommy, you know you gotta do more running, right?"
"You bet, Mahoney," answered the young boxer as he climbed over the ropes. "I'll be at Central Park if you want me."
"Tommy's a good kid," Mahoney said in a low tone. "He should go far..." There was something strange in the old man's voice that Bane couldn't identify. Regret? Sorrow?
"What's the matter?" Bane asked.
"Nothing, nothing. Listen, aside from you fighting maniacs like Samhain and that guy with the skull face, what have you been up to? Ever find a nice girl and pop out a few wee ones?"
"No such luck. How's your own family? Didn't you and Sue have a little girl, what was her name, Beth?"
"Little. Hah. Beth is grown up enough that she's been working at a blood lab at Mt Sinai for the past few years. My Sue has been dead almost ten years now, but I guess you didn't know that, Jeremy." Mahoney teared up just a bit. "She lived long enough to be proud of Beth graduating, though. First one in our family to go to college."
"That's a consolation," Bane said. "Listen, though, Mahoney. I'm afraid I did have an ulterior motive in coming down here. Someone told me about a real low bunch of gamblers. Not high class at all. I heard they threatened family members to make a boxer upstate take a dive."
"Can't help you," Mahoney grumbled, beginning to turn away.
"I want to nail these guys good," the Dire Wolf went on. "If you hear anything about them. Three guys, one is a fat bald slob, another has a pencil mustache and smokes thin cigars. I don't know about their third member. If you hear about them, let me know and I'll put them away--"
"Can't help you," Mahoney repeated and this time he did turn his back. "Nice seeing you again, son. Drop by again someday and we'll get you a sparring partner. I got paperwork to do and phone calls to make."
"Okay, Mahoney. Take care." Bane raised one eyebrow and headed toward the door to the street. He did not tell the old trainer that his daughter Beth had been at Bane's office first thing that morning asking him to investigate what was frightening her father.
II.
At four that afternoon, the Dire Wolf was back in his office in the four-story yellow brick building on Third Avenue. He was pacing restlessly, hands clasped behind his back as he tried to think of another contact to call. The problem was that he had connections throughout the hidden world of secret martial arts groups in the city. Everyone from the Black Mantis to Winter Snow. But he had no contacts in the boxing game. It was not connected to the Midnight War where he lived and worked.
Even so, he had found a few mentions of a ring of four grifters in the city. They had been placing considerable bets on boxing matches and making a little profit. Reportedly their leader, a man known as Breeze, had also been working the numbers and the horses. But they were definitely small time and had not caught the notice of those gambling lords who ran the games in Manhattan.
As for Mahoney's new fighter, Tommy Denberg, nothing seemed suspicious. The kid was twenty-two, came from a large family he wanted to help suport, and seemed to be straight. The Dire Wolf scowled at his lack of progress. He went over to the waist high bookcase which held basic volumes on criminal law, some reference works and a photostated copy of Kenneth Dred's handwritten FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE. The top of the bookcase was always littered with newspapers and he tapped them into a bundle to be thrown out just as the doorbell rang.
Rushing to the tiny waiting room that was just big enough for a coffee table and two chairs, Bane glared up at the closed-circuit monitor high up on the wall. It showed the hall just outside, and there stood Mahoney's daughter. The Dire Wolf took a second to check the hall for anyone else but spotted nothing suspicious. He opened the door to the hall and said, "Come in, Miss Mahoney."
For someone with two Irish parents, Beth Mahoney sure did not look the part. She was tall and thin, with wavy black hair and dark blue eyes in a narrow face. A cleft chin and hawk nose gave her a distinctive look. Dressed well enough in a light summer pantsuit of tan material, she stared at Bane with obvious desperation as he ushered her in. Seating her in one of the straightback chairs, he went behind his desk to lower himself into his own seat.
"I went to see your father this morning," he began and filled her in on his lack of progress. She listened intently and sighed.
"Something bad is going on," Beth Mahoney told him. "Last week, I happened to be going past the gym at twelve at night. A light was on in the office. The front door was locked. I asked Dad the next day what on Earth he was doing there so late and he denied everything. He said he must have just left the light on."
Bane gave her the descriptions he had gathered of Breeze and Omar. "Have you seen these men in the area? Or any shady characters hanging around the neighborhood?"
"Hah! Just the usual derelicts and pickpockets," she snapped. "But now Tommy is acting funny as well. Something is bothering him."
"I got a look at him today," Bane said. "I want to ask him a few questions but that will mean your father will hear about it. He'll know I'm investigating. What's your relationship with Tommy?"
"We're not dating, if that's what you mean. But we might as well be. I spend a lot of time with Tommy. He's a decent soul, and that's hard to find these days."
The Dire Wolf leaned forward, placing his palms on the desk. "HThas Tommy ever mentioned being pressured to take a dive? To not do his best in a bout?"
"WHAT?! No, never. He'd quit and wash dishes for a living first." Beth seemed genuinely angry. "I can see you don't know Tommy OR my father, Mr Bane."
"No," the Dire Wolf replied quietly. "But I have dealt with gamblers before. They can use threats or blackmail or promises of quick riches to push both fighters and managers to rig bouts. They're low."
"Tommy is above that. So is my father. Mr Bane, I came to you for help and I have to say I'm disappointed."
"I have my observers looking for the gamblers. As soon as they're spotted, I'll confront them. And I am going to talk with Tommy tonight. Even if he hasn't taken the bait, I'll know if he has been offered it." Bane studied her expressions and body language. "You're anxious, Miss Mahoney, but so far there seems to be nothing definite to worry about."
The young woman exhaled angrily and pushed her chair back. "Dad is depressed and withdrawn. Something is bothering him. He has always been frank with me about problems, whether it was the bills getting out of hand or a disappointing check-up with the doctor. For him to just close up like this and not confide in him is a bad sign." She got impatiently to her feet. "I have to get to work. Please tell me you're going to find something concrete."
Bane rose as well. "I'm looking into the situation. If it is those gamblers and I get hold of them, I can promise that they'll leave your father alone." He escorted her to the hall. "I'll be in touch."
"Very well," she said with a sniff as she trotted away.
The Dire Wolf went back in his office. Two hours later, the phone rang and Beth Mahoney told him that her father was in the ICU at the same hospital where she worked. He had been beaten half to death.
III.
Three gamblers sat in folding metal chairs near the ring, and all of them except the boxer were smoking heavily. Jack McEntee had a thin black cheroot dangling from his mouth, and his battered hat was pushed far back on his head. His trimmed pencil mustache contrasted with the bristling white one Omar sported."Twelve on the dot," he announced with a glance at the wall clock. "If the skirt is gonna show, she better do it soon."
"Cut her some slack," Vargas told him with just a hint of menace. He had been working out that evening to pass the time and sat with a well-worn yellow robe draped over sweaty shoulders. "Her grandpa's in ICU. She's not going to be thinking too clearly. We have to take it slow letting her in on the truth."
"Listen and get me good," McEntee said. "The bitch can't be kept ignorant forever. She's not a dummy, she'll figure out we've been rigging the fights and raking in cash. She'll come around. When she starts seeing the money ending up in her checkbook, it'll all seem like a good idea."
"It's not throwing some fights and setting up Vargas against chumps that's the problem," interrupted the obese man who sat wiping his face with a handkerchief. "It's what we did to Mahoney today." Omar smirked slightly. "Not that he gave us any choice."
"Ah, he had to be put in his place!" McEntee stood up and dropped his cigar to the floor, before crushing it under a platform shoe that still did not make him average height. "You know Tommy wouldn't do it, he's too soft on the girl. I had to make Vargas handle the beating and maybe he did it a little too thorough."
"The guy is seventy," said the fat man with a chuckle. "You know he's not going to make it. Even if he does live, it's a wheelchair in a nursing home for him."
"So WHAT?" McEntee was getting irritated. "He was dragging his feet. Beth will inherit the gym and she's tumbled for our new boy Tommy so bad that she'll believe whatever he says. Our game is just getting started."
A dark figure stirred in the gloom on the other side of the ring. No one had heard Bane enter through the side door, nor did they know how long he had been standing there. As he emerged into the subdued overhead light, he said quietly, "Evening, gentlemen."
The gamblers knocked over their folding chairs as they catapulted to their feet. McEntee jumped up in panic, a pearl-handed .32 revolver appearing in his hand pointed directly at the intruder. It was Vargas who stood up slowly and smoothly, regarding the man in black with deadly calm.
"I think you better start talking," McEntee snapped, "and we better like what you have to say."
"We'll see. Miss Mahoney is not coming here tonight. I am acting as her representative." The Dire Wolf approached within arm's length as if the gun didn't register with him at all. "She's waiting in the lobby at the hospital. You guys are real hard cases, beating on an old man with an axe handle."
"Axe handle? You're crazy, it-" the obese man caught himself.
"Yeah? You were going to say it wasn't an axe handle. It was bare hands. I know that." Bane's grey eyes glittered like ice in the dim light as he stared up at the hulking Vargas. "And I know whose hands."
Growling deep in his barrel chest, Anthony Vargas took a step forward, but McEntee restrained him with a hand on one shoulder. "This joker has said a lot of wild crap," he told the boxer. "Let's see what else he has to say."
The Dire Wolf shrugged off his black sport jacket and folded it on one of the chairs. He had left the Smith & Wesson 38 behind. In his long-sleeved black turtleneck and slacks, he looked so gaunt as to be almost frail next to the beefy fighter who stood a good two inches taller. "Here's what we are going to do. Vargas and I are going to get in the ring while you crooks watch. And I am going to beat him as badly as he beat old man Mahoney."
Vargas started to guffaw at the unexpected challenge but he was cut short by a blurringly fast backfist that snapped his head to one side. Bane had drawn back his hand before anyone had seen it strike. The big man staggered, caught himself and suddenly ripped his robe off to throw it behind him. "You're on, mister! No one has ever struck me without paying for it. Breeze, wrap his hands and get him some gloves. Omar, get me ready. This is going to be a show you won't forget."
It didn't take long. Gloves and sneakers were found that fit Bane well enough, but no mouthguard was offered. He smiled wryly to himself at this thought. As he and Vargas climbed into opposite corners of the ring, he noticed McEntee still had the revolver in hand. Arthur "Breeze" McEntee, he reflected, a name he had long had tucked away in a corner of his mind in case he ever had a chance to nail the guy. The fat one with the white mustache was Omar Mullen, known in a few states for shady operations and who had done five years in Napanoch for fraud. They were just as responsible for putting Liam Mahoney in Intensive Care as Vargas was and Bane had plans for them, too.
There was no speech, no bell. Anthony Vargas just came rushing straight at his smaller opponent. He had no idea what he was facing. Twice as fast as a normal Human, trained in Kumundu at Tel Shai for decades, He waited with hands barely raised and as Vargas came closer, Bane abruptly blasted a right jab and left hook that no one watching quite saw. Everyone heard the sharp cracking noises but the blows themselves were not even blurs. Vargas spun halfway around and reeled two feet to the side. His defenses were completely down.
"Come on, stay on your feet," Bane told him coldly. "You've earned a lot more than that today."
Then a woman's voice rang out, "What the hell is going on here" Bane's heart sank as he recognized that voice. Beth Mahoney had entered through the open front door and was standing right between the two gamblers.
"Ah, glad you decided to show up," McEntee chuckled. He didn't aim the revolver at the young woman but he made sure she saw it.
Beth was so baffled that she stammered before she could form a coherent sentence. "I-I came to see what you men wanted. My father's critical but stable. I don't understand, why the fight? What are you doing in the ring, Mr Bane?"
"Bane?" repeated Omar with horror in his voice. "Jeremy BANE?"
"Oh my God!" screamed McEntee. "Don't you guys recognize him? That's the Dire Wolf. Run, Vargas!"
But the big boxer raised his fists, shook himself and took a step toward his smaller opponent. Bane stepped in close and there was a rapid drumming noise as he slammed twenty alternating left-right body blows within a few seconds to Vargas' torso. Ribs slintered, the breath was driven out of the man's lungs and blood sprayed from his mouth. In the splitsecond before the boxer could fall, Bane bent and hoisted the big man over his shoulders to fling him headlong out of the ring onto his cronies. McEntee and Omar went down in a confused tangle of arms and legs and wooden chairs that broke under them.
"That's more like it," the Dire Wolf snarled. Yanking off the boxing gloves and tossing them away, he vaulted over the ropes and landed lightly on his feet next to the jumbled bodies. Kicking the pistol away so Beth wouldn't catch a stray shot was his first priority. Bane grabbed McEntee by the jacket, tugged him up onto his feet and crashed a simple straight punch to the chest that broke the thug's sternum and ruptured his heart. McEntee fell straight down where he stood.
Bane swung to face the only remaining crook who was still conscious. Omar had gotten clumsily to his feet, gasping for breath, holding out empty hands in total submission. "Wait, wait, I give up. I surrender! I'll go along peacefully. Don't hit me, please."
For a long twenty seconds, the Dire Wolf glared at the trembling fat man. The gangster had yielded, he showed no signs of intending to go for a weapon. He was no threat, and Bane's self-imposed rules said he should accept the surrender. But the image of poor old Mahoney being wheeled into the ICU was too fresh and too infuriating.
"You were in on it," Bane said in a low voice. "I heard you laugh about Mahoney ending up in a wheelchair." Lunging in like a fencer, he spun and exploded a heel to the side of the fat man's head that flipped him off his feet in a loose cartwheel. "Laugh now if you want to."
Beth Mahoney had gotten back well out of reach during the violence. Her face was so pale her blue eyes seemed black, and she was visibly trembling. "Oh God. Oh God," she repeated.
Stepping closer, the Dire Wolf gripped her shoulders firmly and stared down into her eyes. "Look at me. Just me. It's okay, Beth. Take a few seconds. Catch your breath. I'm going to explain. You ready?"
The young woman took a deep sobbing breath but then her voice was steady. "I'm good. I'm good, just tell me what's going on here. Please!"
"These men are small-time gamblers and crooks. They were rigging fights and they pressured Tommy into taking a dive by threatening your life. Your father is as brave as any man, but risking your life was the one thing he wouldn't do. You following me?"
Beth disengaged his hands and folded her arms as if hugging herself for comfort. "Then... these bastards are the ones who hurt Dad?"
"Yes. He stood up to them. He was going to take you to some other city and start over. He told them where to get off. So to teach him a lesson and to warn other victims, Vargas did the beating. I punished him. Right now he needs an ambulance as much as your father did. I think every rib is broken and a lung may be collapsed. I'm going to call 911."
"Go ahead and call," she told him. "I don't know if I would."
5/5/2015r
7/28-7/29/2003
I.
A few minutes after one in the afternoon and the air was still muggy from the day before without having had any break overnight. Bane didn't notice. Even in his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, his body was so conditioned by decades of Tel Shai training that he felt comfortable under all but the most extreme weather. He had left his car a few blocks back in a municipal garage and as he turned the corner to 14th Street, he stopped with a twinge of unexpected emotion. He had not seen the weathered wooden door with its fanlight, nor the handpainted sign MAHONEY'S GYM - BOXING AND SELF-DEFENSE, for many years.
The Dire Wolf was not a sentimental man by nature but he had human feelings and now he was held in his tracks by a flash of memory. So long ago. He had been seventeen, living on the streets and sleeping where he could, surviving as a thief and burglar, trusting no one and letting no one get to know him. Even as a child, his inborn enhanced reflexes had helped him survive and even thrive in dangerous conditions. By seventeen, he had amassed a few thousand dollars he kept on him in a grouch bag around his neck. A fight with members of the Winter Snow dojo had been closer than he had liked, and the idea sank in that he could use some training. So he had come here and Liam Mahoney had taken him as a customer.
Shaking off memories like cobwebs, Bane strode up to the door and entered. Not much had changed in almost thirty years. The cigarette machine to the left was gone now, replaced by a soft drink vending machine. The faded posters of Joe Louis and Sonny Liston had been taken away, and in their spots were ads for upcoming matches. But the ammonia used to scrub the floor still struggled to displace stale sweat, and the radio was still playing an all-news station quietly in one corner. In the opposite wall was the door to the locker room and showers; enclosed in one corner was a walled-off section that had been made into Mahoney's office with a door that had a frosted-glass panel reading PRIVATE.
There were free weights and a few mats on the floor, but most of the space was taken up by the ring. It was new, a bigger ring than the one Bane remembered from his youth. Three feet up off the ground, twenty-three feet to each side, the ring looked like it had been put up only a few years earlier. The canvas was bright and unstained. Two men were sparring as Bane entered and he watched them critically. Both were young, in their early twenties, in decent shape. The taller one had curly black hair and wore white trunks with a black stripe. An inch shorter but heavier across the shoulders was a guy with a blond crewcut, wearing solid red trunks. As Bane watched, the two men exchanged tentative jabs and feints, testing each other's reactions, waiting for an opening. And then a familiar abrasive voice rang out.
"What, are you guys on a date? Mix it up. Come on, Tommy, I thought you had some spirit. Move it, move it, you gotta act.. not react!" Mahoney was standing next to the ropes with a bottle of water in his hand. He had aged tremendously since Bane had last seen him, but then he had to be in his late sixties now. Not more than five foot eight, even in the loose sweatshirt and slacks he showed the thin arms and legs and the low potbelly of an old man. The square pugnacious face was weathered, the dark hair was only found behind the ears and across the back of the head, but that hectoring voice was the same.
As the two fighters closed in and started slugging more in earnest, Bane stepped closer. Mahoney saw him from the corner of an eye, grinned and loped over to grab the Dire Wolf by both arms and try to shake him. "I'll be damned, that's the whole truth! Talk about a blast from the past. You look like you've kept in shape, son."
Bane was smiling as much as he ever did, a barely perceptible raising of the corners of the mouth. "I see you're still pushing your boys to get every ounce out of them you can, Mahoney."
"The game doesn't change much," said the old man. "Ah, but you... I've heard wild stories about you. My God, you're kind of an urban legend whether you know it or not."
The Dire Wolf patted the man on the back, not quite hugging but for him it was a remarkably warm gesture. "People exaggerate, you know that," he answered. "I'm just one of a thousand Private Investigators trying to make a dent in the big city."
pg time?"
Bane shook his head and glanced up at the two men in the ring, who had thrown a few more punches and then drawn back again. "Eh, maybe I'm just getting nostalgic as I get older. So, the guy in the white trunks is your fighter, huh?"
"Yeah. Awright, you two, that's enough. Hit the showers and be back tomorrow. Suarez is gonna be using the ring this afternoon. Tommy, you know you gotta do more running, right?"
"You bet, Mahoney," answered the young boxer as he climbed over the ropes. "I'll be at Central Park if you want me."
"Tommy's a good kid," Mahoney said in a low tone. "He should go far..." There was something strange in the old man's voice that Bane couldn't identify. Regret? Sorrow?
"What's the matter?" Bane asked.
"Nothing, nothing. Listen, aside from you fighting maniacs like Samhain and that guy with the skull face, what have you been up to? Ever find a nice girl and pop out a few wee ones?"
"No such luck. How's your own family? Didn't you and Sue have a little girl, what was her name, Beth?"
"Little. Hah. Beth is grown up enough that she's been working at a blood lab at Mt Sinai for the past few years. My Sue has been dead almost ten years now, but I guess you didn't know that, Jeremy." Mahoney teared up just a bit. "She lived long enough to be proud of Beth graduating, though. First one in our family to go to college."
"That's a consolation," Bane said. "Listen, though, Mahoney. I'm afraid I did have an ulterior motive in coming down here. Someone told me about a real low bunch of gamblers. Not high class at all. I heard they threatened family members to make a boxer upstate take a dive."
"Can't help you," Mahoney grumbled, beginning to turn away.
"I want to nail these guys good," the Dire Wolf went on. "If you hear anything about them. Three guys, one is a fat bald slob, another has a pencil mustache and smokes thin cigars. I don't know about their third member. If you hear about them, let me know and I'll put them away--"
"Can't help you," Mahoney repeated and this time he did turn his back. "Nice seeing you again, son. Drop by again someday and we'll get you a sparring partner. I got paperwork to do and phone calls to make."
"Okay, Mahoney. Take care." Bane raised one eyebrow and headed toward the door to the street. He did not tell the old trainer that his daughter Beth had been at Bane's office first thing that morning asking him to investigate what was frightening her father.
II.
At four that afternoon, the Dire Wolf was back in his office in the four-story yellow brick building on Third Avenue. He was pacing restlessly, hands clasped behind his back as he tried to think of another contact to call. The problem was that he had connections throughout the hidden world of secret martial arts groups in the city. Everyone from the Black Mantis to Winter Snow. But he had no contacts in the boxing game. It was not connected to the Midnight War where he lived and worked.
Even so, he had found a few mentions of a ring of four grifters in the city. They had been placing considerable bets on boxing matches and making a little profit. Reportedly their leader, a man known as Breeze, had also been working the numbers and the horses. But they were definitely small time and had not caught the notice of those gambling lords who ran the games in Manhattan.
As for Mahoney's new fighter, Tommy Denberg, nothing seemed suspicious. The kid was twenty-two, came from a large family he wanted to help suport, and seemed to be straight. The Dire Wolf scowled at his lack of progress. He went over to the waist high bookcase which held basic volumes on criminal law, some reference works and a photostated copy of Kenneth Dred's handwritten FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE. The top of the bookcase was always littered with newspapers and he tapped them into a bundle to be thrown out just as the doorbell rang.
Rushing to the tiny waiting room that was just big enough for a coffee table and two chairs, Bane glared up at the closed-circuit monitor high up on the wall. It showed the hall just outside, and there stood Mahoney's daughter. The Dire Wolf took a second to check the hall for anyone else but spotted nothing suspicious. He opened the door to the hall and said, "Come in, Miss Mahoney."
For someone with two Irish parents, Beth Mahoney sure did not look the part. She was tall and thin, with wavy black hair and dark blue eyes in a narrow face. A cleft chin and hawk nose gave her a distinctive look. Dressed well enough in a light summer pantsuit of tan material, she stared at Bane with obvious desperation as he ushered her in. Seating her in one of the straightback chairs, he went behind his desk to lower himself into his own seat.
"I went to see your father this morning," he began and filled her in on his lack of progress. She listened intently and sighed.
"Something bad is going on," Beth Mahoney told him. "Last week, I happened to be going past the gym at twelve at night. A light was on in the office. The front door was locked. I asked Dad the next day what on Earth he was doing there so late and he denied everything. He said he must have just left the light on."
Bane gave her the descriptions he had gathered of Breeze and Omar. "Have you seen these men in the area? Or any shady characters hanging around the neighborhood?"
"Hah! Just the usual derelicts and pickpockets," she snapped. "But now Tommy is acting funny as well. Something is bothering him."
"I got a look at him today," Bane said. "I want to ask him a few questions but that will mean your father will hear about it. He'll know I'm investigating. What's your relationship with Tommy?"
"We're not dating, if that's what you mean. But we might as well be. I spend a lot of time with Tommy. He's a decent soul, and that's hard to find these days."
The Dire Wolf leaned forward, placing his palms on the desk. "HThas Tommy ever mentioned being pressured to take a dive? To not do his best in a bout?"
"WHAT?! No, never. He'd quit and wash dishes for a living first." Beth seemed genuinely angry. "I can see you don't know Tommy OR my father, Mr Bane."
"No," the Dire Wolf replied quietly. "But I have dealt with gamblers before. They can use threats or blackmail or promises of quick riches to push both fighters and managers to rig bouts. They're low."
"Tommy is above that. So is my father. Mr Bane, I came to you for help and I have to say I'm disappointed."
"I have my observers looking for the gamblers. As soon as they're spotted, I'll confront them. And I am going to talk with Tommy tonight. Even if he hasn't taken the bait, I'll know if he has been offered it." Bane studied her expressions and body language. "You're anxious, Miss Mahoney, but so far there seems to be nothing definite to worry about."
The young woman exhaled angrily and pushed her chair back. "Dad is depressed and withdrawn. Something is bothering him. He has always been frank with me about problems, whether it was the bills getting out of hand or a disappointing check-up with the doctor. For him to just close up like this and not confide in him is a bad sign." She got impatiently to her feet. "I have to get to work. Please tell me you're going to find something concrete."
Bane rose as well. "I'm looking into the situation. If it is those gamblers and I get hold of them, I can promise that they'll leave your father alone." He escorted her to the hall. "I'll be in touch."
"Very well," she said with a sniff as she trotted away.
The Dire Wolf went back in his office. Two hours later, the phone rang and Beth Mahoney told him that her father was in the ICU at the same hospital where she worked. He had been beaten half to death.
III.
Three gamblers sat in folding metal chairs near the ring, and all of them except the boxer were smoking heavily. Jack McEntee had a thin black cheroot dangling from his mouth, and his battered hat was pushed far back on his head. His trimmed pencil mustache contrasted with the bristling white one Omar sported."Twelve on the dot," he announced with a glance at the wall clock. "If the skirt is gonna show, she better do it soon."
"Cut her some slack," Vargas told him with just a hint of menace. He had been working out that evening to pass the time and sat with a well-worn yellow robe draped over sweaty shoulders. "Her grandpa's in ICU. She's not going to be thinking too clearly. We have to take it slow letting her in on the truth."
"Listen and get me good," McEntee said. "The bitch can't be kept ignorant forever. She's not a dummy, she'll figure out we've been rigging the fights and raking in cash. She'll come around. When she starts seeing the money ending up in her checkbook, it'll all seem like a good idea."
"It's not throwing some fights and setting up Vargas against chumps that's the problem," interrupted the obese man who sat wiping his face with a handkerchief. "It's what we did to Mahoney today." Omar smirked slightly. "Not that he gave us any choice."
"Ah, he had to be put in his place!" McEntee stood up and dropped his cigar to the floor, before crushing it under a platform shoe that still did not make him average height. "You know Tommy wouldn't do it, he's too soft on the girl. I had to make Vargas handle the beating and maybe he did it a little too thorough."
"The guy is seventy," said the fat man with a chuckle. "You know he's not going to make it. Even if he does live, it's a wheelchair in a nursing home for him."
"So WHAT?" McEntee was getting irritated. "He was dragging his feet. Beth will inherit the gym and she's tumbled for our new boy Tommy so bad that she'll believe whatever he says. Our game is just getting started."
A dark figure stirred in the gloom on the other side of the ring. No one had heard Bane enter through the side door, nor did they know how long he had been standing there. As he emerged into the subdued overhead light, he said quietly, "Evening, gentlemen."
The gamblers knocked over their folding chairs as they catapulted to their feet. McEntee jumped up in panic, a pearl-handed .32 revolver appearing in his hand pointed directly at the intruder. It was Vargas who stood up slowly and smoothly, regarding the man in black with deadly calm.
"I think you better start talking," McEntee snapped, "and we better like what you have to say."
"We'll see. Miss Mahoney is not coming here tonight. I am acting as her representative." The Dire Wolf approached within arm's length as if the gun didn't register with him at all. "She's waiting in the lobby at the hospital. You guys are real hard cases, beating on an old man with an axe handle."
"Axe handle? You're crazy, it-" the obese man caught himself.
"Yeah? You were going to say it wasn't an axe handle. It was bare hands. I know that." Bane's grey eyes glittered like ice in the dim light as he stared up at the hulking Vargas. "And I know whose hands."
Growling deep in his barrel chest, Anthony Vargas took a step forward, but McEntee restrained him with a hand on one shoulder. "This joker has said a lot of wild crap," he told the boxer. "Let's see what else he has to say."
The Dire Wolf shrugged off his black sport jacket and folded it on one of the chairs. He had left the Smith & Wesson 38 behind. In his long-sleeved black turtleneck and slacks, he looked so gaunt as to be almost frail next to the beefy fighter who stood a good two inches taller. "Here's what we are going to do. Vargas and I are going to get in the ring while you crooks watch. And I am going to beat him as badly as he beat old man Mahoney."
Vargas started to guffaw at the unexpected challenge but he was cut short by a blurringly fast backfist that snapped his head to one side. Bane had drawn back his hand before anyone had seen it strike. The big man staggered, caught himself and suddenly ripped his robe off to throw it behind him. "You're on, mister! No one has ever struck me without paying for it. Breeze, wrap his hands and get him some gloves. Omar, get me ready. This is going to be a show you won't forget."
It didn't take long. Gloves and sneakers were found that fit Bane well enough, but no mouthguard was offered. He smiled wryly to himself at this thought. As he and Vargas climbed into opposite corners of the ring, he noticed McEntee still had the revolver in hand. Arthur "Breeze" McEntee, he reflected, a name he had long had tucked away in a corner of his mind in case he ever had a chance to nail the guy. The fat one with the white mustache was Omar Mullen, known in a few states for shady operations and who had done five years in Napanoch for fraud. They were just as responsible for putting Liam Mahoney in Intensive Care as Vargas was and Bane had plans for them, too.
There was no speech, no bell. Anthony Vargas just came rushing straight at his smaller opponent. He had no idea what he was facing. Twice as fast as a normal Human, trained in Kumundu at Tel Shai for decades, He waited with hands barely raised and as Vargas came closer, Bane abruptly blasted a right jab and left hook that no one watching quite saw. Everyone heard the sharp cracking noises but the blows themselves were not even blurs. Vargas spun halfway around and reeled two feet to the side. His defenses were completely down.
"Come on, stay on your feet," Bane told him coldly. "You've earned a lot more than that today."
Then a woman's voice rang out, "What the hell is going on here" Bane's heart sank as he recognized that voice. Beth Mahoney had entered through the open front door and was standing right between the two gamblers.
"Ah, glad you decided to show up," McEntee chuckled. He didn't aim the revolver at the young woman but he made sure she saw it.
Beth was so baffled that she stammered before she could form a coherent sentence. "I-I came to see what you men wanted. My father's critical but stable. I don't understand, why the fight? What are you doing in the ring, Mr Bane?"
"Bane?" repeated Omar with horror in his voice. "Jeremy BANE?"
"Oh my God!" screamed McEntee. "Don't you guys recognize him? That's the Dire Wolf. Run, Vargas!"
But the big boxer raised his fists, shook himself and took a step toward his smaller opponent. Bane stepped in close and there was a rapid drumming noise as he slammed twenty alternating left-right body blows within a few seconds to Vargas' torso. Ribs slintered, the breath was driven out of the man's lungs and blood sprayed from his mouth. In the splitsecond before the boxer could fall, Bane bent and hoisted the big man over his shoulders to fling him headlong out of the ring onto his cronies. McEntee and Omar went down in a confused tangle of arms and legs and wooden chairs that broke under them.
"That's more like it," the Dire Wolf snarled. Yanking off the boxing gloves and tossing them away, he vaulted over the ropes and landed lightly on his feet next to the jumbled bodies. Kicking the pistol away so Beth wouldn't catch a stray shot was his first priority. Bane grabbed McEntee by the jacket, tugged him up onto his feet and crashed a simple straight punch to the chest that broke the thug's sternum and ruptured his heart. McEntee fell straight down where he stood.
Bane swung to face the only remaining crook who was still conscious. Omar had gotten clumsily to his feet, gasping for breath, holding out empty hands in total submission. "Wait, wait, I give up. I surrender! I'll go along peacefully. Don't hit me, please."
For a long twenty seconds, the Dire Wolf glared at the trembling fat man. The gangster had yielded, he showed no signs of intending to go for a weapon. He was no threat, and Bane's self-imposed rules said he should accept the surrender. But the image of poor old Mahoney being wheeled into the ICU was too fresh and too infuriating.
"You were in on it," Bane said in a low voice. "I heard you laugh about Mahoney ending up in a wheelchair." Lunging in like a fencer, he spun and exploded a heel to the side of the fat man's head that flipped him off his feet in a loose cartwheel. "Laugh now if you want to."
Beth Mahoney had gotten back well out of reach during the violence. Her face was so pale her blue eyes seemed black, and she was visibly trembling. "Oh God. Oh God," she repeated.
Stepping closer, the Dire Wolf gripped her shoulders firmly and stared down into her eyes. "Look at me. Just me. It's okay, Beth. Take a few seconds. Catch your breath. I'm going to explain. You ready?"
The young woman took a deep sobbing breath but then her voice was steady. "I'm good. I'm good, just tell me what's going on here. Please!"
"These men are small-time gamblers and crooks. They were rigging fights and they pressured Tommy into taking a dive by threatening your life. Your father is as brave as any man, but risking your life was the one thing he wouldn't do. You following me?"
Beth disengaged his hands and folded her arms as if hugging herself for comfort. "Then... these bastards are the ones who hurt Dad?"
"Yes. He stood up to them. He was going to take you to some other city and start over. He told them where to get off. So to teach him a lesson and to warn other victims, Vargas did the beating. I punished him. Right now he needs an ambulance as much as your father did. I think every rib is broken and a lung may be collapsed. I'm going to call 911."
"Go ahead and call," she told him. "I don't know if I would."
5/5/2015r
