Away Games: Science Fiction Sports Stories (12 page)

“Watch!” says Milton with a happy smile.

McDade lands a shot to the Kid’s head. Nothing happens in the ring, but Morris goes flying back out of his chair.

Morris is knocked down three more times as he tries to get up, and finally we see him turn to Short Odds, and while I cannot read his lips I know what he is saying, which is that he isn’t getting paid enough to take this kind of beating and he is redirecting it back to the person it is being aimed at, and he makes a mystic gesture with his hands, and the next haymaker McDade throws at the Kid knocks him out of the ring and has absolutely no effect on Morris. The referee looks out at the floor to see if the Kid can make it back by the count of ten, but it is obvious that the Kid cannot even wake up by the count of ten to the thirty-seventh power, and that is that and I do not have to pay off any bets, and I resolve to tell all the other bookies never to deal with Short Odds Harrigan again, and then I think why should I make life easier for them, so we all of us except Milton, who sees Mitzi McSweeney in the crowd and goes over to patch things up, return to Joey Chicago’s to celebrate not going broke.

Milton walks in half an hour later, holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose.

“So she’s still mad at you,” I say.

“Well, yes and no,” answers Milton, dabbing gingerly at his nose.

“What do you mean?” asks Benny Fifth Street.

“I explain to her that I have been a cad, and I apologize for all offenses I have given her, and she is clearly softening and liking what she hears, and so I throw myself at her mercy.”

“That sounds like a humble approach,” says Benny. “Why should a woman get upset when you throw yourself at her mercy?”

“I miss her mercy,” explains Milton, “and you cannot believe how displeased she is with what I hit.”

Just then who should walk in but Mitzi McSweeney. I would say she has blood in her eye, but that would be misleading, because what she had is blood on her hand, and there is no question but that it comes from Milton’s nose.

“Where is he?” she demands.

I look around, and Milton is nowhere to be seen, but I can hear a voice muttering behind the door of Milton’s office, saying “I should have let Kid Testosterone fight her when he and I still had a chance.”

Mitzi hears it too, and in another twenty seconds she puts on an exhibition that would be the envy of both the Kid and the Bonecrusher.

***

A Very Formal Affair

Author’s Note: Dance Competition

Another Harry the Book story. When I was going through my backlog, trying to find one more story to fill out this collection, I came across this one and realized that yes, dancing competition is a sport, especially if people bet on the outcome.

I am sitting in my office, which happens to be the third booth of Joey Chicago’s 3-Star Tavern, studying the fight card and wondering if this could be the night Kid Testosterone makes it all the way to the second record before being knocked senseless. Benny Fifth Street is behind the bar, pouring himself an Old Peculiar, and Dead End Dugan, who is still having trouble adjusting to being a zombie, is standing in the corner, staring into space and trying to think a bunch of dead thoughts. Big-Hearted Milton, my personal mage, is in
his
office in the men’s room, surrounded by black candles, and chanting a curse which was supposed to get Betty Petunia into bed with him but so far has gotten him nothing but a slapped face, a knee in a place that I cannot mention in a G-rated story such as I am relating, and an evening explaining to the police exactly why he was playing itsy-bitsy-spider on her thigh just before she threw the wine at him. (“And it was not the house wine,” he complained in outraged tones when he arrived back at Joey Chicago’s. “It was Chateau Morganschlucker. Do you know what that stuff costs per glass?”)

I have just about concluded that Kid Testosterone cannot last 45 seconds with the Midtown Masher, give or take half a minute, and I am about to turn my mind to serious contemplation of the third race at Aqueduct when Gently Gently Dawkins, all 375 pounds of him, enters the tavern. He walks right up to the bar, grabs a handful of nuts and pretzels, tosses them into his mouth, repeats the procedure two more times, and then addresses the room in general. “Why is Benny Fifth Street behind the bar?” he says. “What hideous fate has befallen our beloved Joey Chicago, and before it happens does he leave the sawbuck he owes me with anyone?”

“Joey Chicago is fine,” says Benny. “He is catering a formal affair across town.”

“Catering?” asks Gently Gently. “You mean like with food and such?”

“These people have already eaten dinner,” answers Benny. “He brings along a dozen cases of his best whiskey.”

“What is the occasion?” asks Gently Gently without much interest, now that the food is off the table, so to speak.

“It is the annual Christmas Eve Dance Contest to benefit the Upper West Side Retirement Home for Warlocks and Witches of Advancing Age,” says Benny. “Though with Joey Chicago catering it, I doubt that any participants will be able to pronounce it by ten o’clock tonight.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” say Gently Gently, walking over and pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket. “Here is ten thousand dollars, Harry.”

I pick it up and start counting it.

“If I remind you of Joey Chicago, will you drop ten large on me too?” asks Benny.

“I do not wish to seem ungracious,” I say, “in case this is a Christmas present, but if it is not, and I certainly do not pay you enough for it to be, then what, pray, is it for?”

“It is a bet on the dance contest from Short Odds McDougal,” answers Gently Gently.

“And who does Short Odds McDougal pick, as if I don’t know?” I say, because Short Odds plays so many odds-on favorites that he could put the chalk company out of business, and there is no way that the favored couple can lose tonight.

“This is really strange,” says Gently Gently. “I ask him if he is betting on Twinkle Toes Tony and Fatima Fatale, who are the defending champions and figure to be about 2-to-5 to win again, and he says no, that I should tell Harry the Book—I guess that means you since you are he (or is it him?)—that he wants all ten large on Clubfoot Clarence’s schnoz.”

“Say that again!” I demand.

“He says the whole boodle goes on Clubfoot Clarence. I tell him he could split it five and five, half on Clarence, and half on an exacta for Clarence and Tony to come in one-two, and he says he doesn’t care who comes in second, that he wants it all on Clarence.”

“This is serious,” I say. “I have Clarence at 50-to-1 on the morning line.”

“Maybe his new partner will move him up in class,” says Gently Gently.

“Who is it?” asks Benny.

“Lezli Luscious,” says Gently Gently. “I am told that she is the Prima Ballerina at Salacious Sally’s Palace of Exotic Delights.”

“She is more like the Prima Bumpagrinda,” replies Benny.

“You two are missing the point!” I say.

“Lezli Luscious does not have any points, only curves,” says Gently Gently.

“The point is that Short Odds McDougal only bets on favorites, and suddenly he has laid ten large on a 50-to-1 shot,” I say. “If he wins I am out half a million dollars, and between you and me and the gatepost I do not have half a million dollars.”

“Not only that,” says Gently Gently, looking around the tavern, “but I do not even see a gatepost.”

“Clearly the hex is in,” I say. “We are going to have to go over there and find out what is going on.”

“I can tell you what is going on,” says Dead End Dugan, who has momentarily stopped thinking dead thoughts. “The hex is in, Harry.”

“Thank you for that insight, Dead End,” I say, because sarcasm is lost on zombies, as is logic, food, and pain. “I had better get Milton, and then we are on our way.”

I walk into the men’s room, and there is Big-Hearted Milton sitting on the floor, sporting a black eye and surrounded by eight big candles, and he is muttering and chanting in a language that is almost as alien as French.

“Milton,” I say, “get up. We have things to do.”

He puts a finger to his lips, then utters one last chant.

“Now she’ll be sorry,” he says, getting to his feet.

“You are referring to Betty Petunia?” I say.

“That’s right.” He cackles and rubs his hands together. “Throw wine in
my
face, will she?”

“What terrible thing have you done to her?” I ask, not that I really care, but I do not wish to hurt Milton’s delicate feelings, especially since I may need him before the night is over.

“She has left me for Bail Bond Bailey,” says Milton. “I have put a curse on her undergarments. No matter how hard she or Bailey try, her bra will not come off, and neither will her girdle.” He cackles again. “I guess that writes
Fini
to that romance.”

I do not have the heart to tell him that as far as anyone knows, and given the texture of her blouses that is very far indeed, Betty Petunia has not worn a bra since she reached puberty, and they do not even manufacture girdles any more. “That is some curse, Milton,” I say, while wondering if Morris the Mage is still on vacation or is maybe available to work this evening.

“All right, Harry,” says Milton, “tell me what is so important.”

“Short Odds McDougal just bet ten large on a 50-to-1 shot,” I say.

“Aqueduct or Santa Anita?”

“West 73rd Street,” I say.

He frowns. “What is happening on West 73rd Street?”

I tell him.

“Clearly someone has hexed Twinkle Toes Tony and Fatima Fatale,” says Milton. “We must go there before the judging is done and set things right. In fact, we haven’t a second to lose!”

“I am glad to see you so motivated,” I say.

“I have five yards riding on Tony and Fatima,” he says.

“No you don’t,” I say.

“Yes I do,” he insists. “I made the wager with Bet-a-Million McNabb.”

“You do not bet with your own employer?” I demand.

“I love you like a brother,” he says, “but McNabb gives better odds.”

I seriously consider telling him what Betty Petunia does not wear under her dress, but then I decide to wait until the evening is over, because I will need him on my side when I confront whatever foul fiend has tried to rig the dance contest.

We walk out into the tavern, and my crew gathers around me.

“Harry,” says Dead End Dugan, “I have been thinking long and hard on it, and my conclusion is that we should do something. I would tell you about what, but my short-term memory has been on the blink since the last time they dug me up.”

“I second the motion,” says Gently Gently, and then adds hopefully: “Maybe there will be some free eats at the contest.”

“Do we have to dress formally?” asks Benny.

Milton walks to the coat rack and dons his red velvet cloak, the one with the signs of the zodiac emblazoned on it.

“I am ready,” he announces. “How about you, Harry?”

“I am wearing my formal straw boater and chewing on my formal toothpick,” I say. “Let us away.”

And away we let.

• • •

We show up, and it seems that all the men are wearing black tuxedos, except for the few that are wearing blue, mauve, puce, or pink ones. The women are all trying their best to look like they are not wearing anything, and one or two just about succeed.

I leave Dugan at the door and tell him not to let anyone out until he hears from me, because I cannot believe that whoever has fixed the contest for Short Odds McDougal will not be on the premises to make sure nothing goes wrong. I look around the audience and I see Joey Chicago tending bar, and it is clear that everyone has been drinking hard all night because he is serving up his cheap stuff and no one seems to notice the difference. I spot Morris the Mage is in his formal black cape (which does not match his tan Hush Puppies), and Spellsinger Solly is actually wearing a tux, though with an advertisement for Matilda’s Meat Market tastefully sewn on a breast pocket. Herman the Plunger—who is not to be confused with Hyman the Plunger, the local plumber—is there, betting on every single dance, of which I gather there are an awful lot. Short Odds McDougal is there too, smiling like the cat that is about to eat five hundred thousand canaries.

“There is magic in the air, Harry,” says Big-Hearted Milton, though Gently Gently argues that it is merely the smell of pastries.

Suddenly I realize that I am getting a headache, and then I see that Velvet Voice Vinnie is standing at the microphone, singing his latest, so at least I know
why
my head hurts.

I look at the couples on the dance floor, and there, whirling and swirling like they are on ice skates, are Twinkle Toes Tony and Fatima Fatale, and it is like they are a whole different species they are so graceful. Which is not to say they are not a whole different species from some of the competition, because there are elves, goblins, gremlins, leprechauns, and even a ghoul or two out on the floor.

I peer into a darkened corner, and there are Clubfoot Clarence and Lezli Luscious, and I decide that Clarence has picked the ideal partner, not that Lezli can dance any better than he can but that once you look at her you forget all about the fact that this is a dance competition. She curses as he steps on her foot, but they go right on waltzing, which is kind of strange since everyone else is doing the rhumba.

Across the way is Swivelhips McGee, whose conversion from quarterback to halfback for the Manhattan Misfits never quite worked, and who wound up playing three-eighthsback. He is dancing with Dressy Jessie Sweeney, who keeps throwing dirty looks at Lezli Luscious, but the looks keep bouncing off her superstructure and shooting off into space.

“Who is that dancing with Pretty Perky Penelope?” asks Gently Gently.

“That is Lefty Louie,” says Milton.

“Are you sure?” says Benny.

“Of course I’m sure,” says Milton. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I am watching him, and he seems to be right-handed,” says Benny.

“He is,” says Milton.

“Then why is he Lefty Louie?” asks Gently Gently.

“Because he has two left feet,” answers Milton.

“He does not look that awkward to me,” observes Benny.

“You do not understand,” says Milton.

“Enlighten me,” says Benny.

“He has two left feet,” repeats Milton.

“You said that.”

“And no right feet,” continues Milton.

“Are you sure?” asks Benny dubiously.

“He comes to see me about it,” says Milton. “But there is nothing about the condition in my grimoires, so I tell him that it could be worse, he could have two left hands growing out of his ankles.” He frowns. “The ingrate does not even pay me for those words of comfort.”

“Who is Bellisima Brown dancing with?” asks Benny, indicating her partner who makes even Gently Gently look thin.

“That is Biscuit Boris,” I answer. “He regularly bets on the Boston jai alai games with me.”

“They do not play jai alai in Boston,” notes Benny.

“Probably that is why he never wins,” I say. “I will not tell him if you don’t.”

“Why is he called Biscuit?” continues Benny. “He does not look like a biscuit, so much as a blimp.”

“Because his doctor says he’s about one biscuit short of five hundred pounds,” I say.

The dance ends, and if Benny has any more questions they are thankfully drowned out by applause.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” says Velvet Voice Vinnie, as if they are cheering for him, whereas half the audience is applauding the dancers and the other half is applauding the fact that Vinnie has come to the end of his song. “And now I want to introduce our all-star panel of judges,” adds Vinnie. “Will you each stand up and take a bow when I call your name? First on the list is Mildred the Saint.”

A sexy redhead stands up and everyone claps.

“She is a saint?” asks Gently Gently.

“By marriage,” says Milton. “She is married to Nick the Saint, who is out of town on business, this being Christmas Eve.”

“She’s a knockout,” says Benny. “No wonder he keeps her hidden up at the North Pole.”

“Next is Lamont Lupo,” says Vinnie, and a tall guy in serious need of a shave and haircut gets up and takes a bow.

“And our final judge is Ming Toy Epstein, who you all know as the proprietor of Ming Toy Epstein’s Kosher Chop Suey House.”

A lovely lady gets up, waves to the crowd, and sits down again.

“The next dance,” announces Vinnie, “will be the samba, so grab your partners—no, not like that, Clarence—and let’s go.”

The music starts, and the dancing follows.