Daring Time (15 page)

At first Ryan was thankful for the distraction. He unobtrusively started to move toward the exit and the wooden staircase in the far distance but Alfie almost immediately spoke to him.

"You're not gonna want to miss this, fella," Alfie murmured. Ryan turned to see both Alfie and the other bartender stopped dead in their tracks, eyes trained on Jack's intimidating figure as it progressed across the crowded room. Both men were directly behind Ryan, preventing a surreptitious getaway.

Like the bartenders, he watched as Jack approached the table, yanked the young woman up and shoved her out of the way roughly before he pounded the man's face with a beefy fist. The guy didn't know what hit him. He'd still been grinning lasciviously when he spilled over his chair backward.

"Get outa here. If you try and come back, they'll find you facedown in the alley," Jack snarled when the balding man sat up with a stunned look on his face.

"Big Mario usually keeps house down here," Alfie told Ryan by way of explanation.

"Jack's gotta watch over things while he's gone."

Ryan cleared his throat. "Look, I need to get some fresh air, you know?"

Alfie shook his head quickly. "Ye ain't going nowhere, friend. Marlo' will be here any minute." He nodded his head to the stage, where the whipping had now ceased. Mel knelt behind her lover, her face buried between a moaning Betsey's thighs. "The Slip and Whip's near finished. Ye're up next, fella."

Ryan sat back down on the stool while he narrowly studied the room. It was so dim he couldn't tell if there were any back entrances or not.

Betsey's moans became louder as she neared what appeared to be a genuine climax.

"Whip the bitch!" a muscular, stocky man who was clearly drunk yelled from a center table. Mel and Betsey had given their pound of flesh to the demanding men, however, and now appeared to be completely involved in each other. There were men in the audience who clearly appreciated the sensual display of Mel pleasuring Betsey with her mouth and tongue, but a few others echoed the man's desire for more brutality.

Ryan glanced over at Jack, curious as to how he would handle the belligerent man as he grew louder, eventually stood and moved toward the stage. Jack had returned to his seat, and although he glanced over when the man bawled again for more whipping, his attention clearly remained on business. Jack had his priorities, it would seem, and establishing that men couldn't come into the Sweet Lash and hope to cheat him of a dollar was one of them.

The safety of the women apparently was not.

Something about the jerk's fixed, ugly expression sent off a warning bell in his head. At first Ryan didn't understand what the guy was doing as he fumbled at his waist, but then Ryan saw him pull off his belt with a snap.

The man leapt onto the stage, the leather belt doubled in his hand, and began to viciously strike both Betsey and Mel. Betsey cried out in stark pain, her flesh having already been abused by the whip. Several people called out in anger, but a few others cheered on the stocky man.

Mel bared her teeth in fury and gripped the belt, stilling the attacker's actions. She kicked at the man's shins with her riding boots. He cursed and grabbed her shoulders, shoving her down forcefully. Mel's head smacked into the floor of the platform. The man with the belt raised his hand over his head, poised to beat the stunned woman.

Ryan caught the attacker's wrist and jerked his other hand behind his back at the same time. He pressed the man's body into him, taking his weight with relative ease and tilting the struggling man off balance, diminishing the power of his short, muscular legs. Ryan pushed the man's wrist up his spine until his fist pressed against his skull.

The man screamed in pain as bone threatened to pop out of a socket or break at any second given the amount of pressure applied to it.

Ryan let up slightly and spoke into the trembling man's ear. "If you don't get off this stage and walk out of the Sweet Lash right now, I'm gonna break your shoulder. Do you understand?"

The man grunted in profound pain.

"I need an answer. Yes or no?"

This time the guy grated out a "yeah." Ryan turned him around and prodded him off the stage. No sooner had he released him, however, when the man whipped around, fist clenched, and aimed at Ryan's gut. Ryan palmed his fist, stopping it instantly, and served him a brisk left hook to the jaw. The man whipped around like a ballerina doing a pirouette. He caught the velvet rope on his face-first fall from the stage, landing heavily on the dingy floor.

Ryan hopped down next to him but apparently the man'd had enough. He scuttled up onto his knees, gripping his jaw as he staggered away, the golden rope catching on his legs and making him trip and fall facedown on the grimy floor. The crowd laughed uproariously and applauded Ryan.

Ryan saw his chance to escape the room and forced the guy to his feet, prodding him toward the exit. The jerk went willingly enough this time, but suddenly the henchman with the square jaw was there to take over, shoving the stocky man ahead of him and charging threateningly behind, herding him out of the brothel.

Ryan cursed softly under his breath when he saw Diamond Jack heading toward him. He glanced back and noticed that Mel was gently settling Betsey's robe on her shoulders, careful of the abrasions on the young woman's back. She regarded Ryan with a mixed expression of gratitude and open curiosity. A strange sense of familiarity went through him when he met her brown-eyed stare. She nodded once in wary thanks. She looked much older up close and Ryan realized she was probably twice Betsey's age.

Ryan gave an answering nod and turned around to await Diamond Jack. He honestly didn't know how the crime boss would react to him jumping up on the stage to protect the prostitutes, and Jack's set, cold visage gave nothing away. Some of the members of the seedy crowd had enjoyed the violent spectacle of the man beating the women, after all.

Ryan had seen some nasty business as a vice detective, but this was one hell of a depraved crowd. He supposed that made sense, because Diamond Jack was one hell of a scumbag.

He tensed when Jack reached for his breast pocket.

"Well, it looks like Shapiro finally sent us someone who knows what he's doing," Jack said as he withdrew a cigar from his pocket and handed it to Ryan. When Ryan refused to take the cigar, he merely shrugged negligently and shoved it in his own mouth. He spoke loud enough for Ryan to hear him but was careful to keep his voice from carrying to the crowd.

"I want
to
thank you." He nodded his head toward the stage. "I had the odds for the fight set at twenty to one. The last eight guys Shapiro sent over didn't last thirty seconds in the ring with Mario. Betting has been sluggish. Guys come for the blood," Jack explained as he tilted his head toward a man sitting at a raised podium at the far side of the room.

Indeed, dozens of men queued up and money was quickly changing hands. "Because of your little demonstration there, I've changed the odds to ten to one. Those guys think you might cause an upset."

"You think you know better, though, right?"

Jack gave him a viper-like grin before he plunged his own soggy cigar back in his mouth.

"I'll take a couple hundred bets on ten to one versus twenty on twenty to one any day."

"Course if Mario loses, you're not going to be so pleased," Ryan said quietly as he scanned the packed room.

"Sure,
fella," Jack chortled around his cigar.

"Shapiro was a little hazy on the details, so I just wanted to clarify my pay before the match."

"Fifteen bucks cash at the end of the match," Jack replied briskly.

"And if I win?"

Jack removed his cigar although some of the tobacco remained clinging to his stained front teeth. His eyelids narrowed speculatively. "Alfie was telling me you've never seen Big Mario. I can tell from your accent you aren't just off the boat," Jack mused. "Where do you live?"

"Bridgeport," Ryan said. Surely the distinctively Irish-American, south-side neighborhood existed in 1906, didn't it?

"I've got some Irish in my background as well," Jack finally murmured after a moment of studying Ryan with his beady, dark eyes. "The prize purse for the boxing match is fifty dollars. That's a lot of money for a mick like you."

"What else?"

Jack's eyebrows went up at Ryan's hard tone. "I see Alfie's been talking again. Well, can't see there's any harm in it. Most of these men know I fire Mario's interest in fighting with the promise of sampling a young lady's charms upstairs. He enjoys the unplucked ones,"

Jack explained with a taut leer.

"So if I win the match, I'll be granted the same pleasure," Jack stated bluntly. He wanted Jack to put the deal into words.

"Like I said, you've got balls," Jack murmured. Ryan returned his stare unwaveringly.

Jack eventually shrugged. "Sure, that's the prize to the winner, even if the winner isn't Big Mario." He once again gave Ryan a cool once-over. "You'd do just as well as anyone for what I have in mind."

"What's the girl look like?"

The laughter faded from around Jack's thin lips. "All of my girls are beauties. Haven't you been satisfied by what you've seen here so far tonight?" he asked, his cadence and tone reverting back to the easy drawl of a southern gentleman.

Ryan gave a small shrug and watched the money rapidly changing hands at the betting station. "They're all right. But if what you've got upstairs is nicer, you should speak up.

You said you like to motivate Big Mario before a match. Don't I deserve the same treatment?" He acutely felt Jack's assessing gaze on him and wondered if he'd gone too far.

"And what'd motivate you?"

"I don't like blondes or redheads. Only brunettes do it for me. Dark hair, dark eyes."

"Is that right?" Jack murmured. "Well, you're in luck, son, because I have the most stunning brunette in five states waiting most patiently upstairs for the victor to join her in bed. Eyes like liquid midnight and skin so white, soft and smooth it'd make a grown man want to weep. I've got some fine fun planned for the man who breaks this beauty in. I want to see some real action in that bed upstairs. Get the picture?" Jack asked, tapping his hand on Ryan's chest and giving him a shrewd, knowing look.

Ryan gave a closed mouth grin to hide his clenched teeth and raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a passable expression of lechery.

"Don't get your hopes up, though, kid," Jack said.

"Why's that?"

"It'll never happen. Because
that's
your opponent." Jack pointed with his cigar to the entrance of the room. Diamond Jack laughed when he saw Ryan's eyes widen in shock.

"Still, you promise to make it interesting, kid, even if it is just an
interesting
slaughter."

ELEVEN

Ten minutes later Ryan could hardly hear himself think the din in the Sweet Lash had grown so loud. He carefully folded his coat and placed it on the floor of the platform just outside the ring. His tie and shirt soon followed. He glanced at the pile of clothing and frowned, knowing his gun was in there. He really didn't have anywhere else to leave the items, though, and there were more pressing matters to consider at the moment.

Ryan crawled through the ropes, testing their tautness and strength with a casual strum of his fingers. The men had drawn them sufficiently tight and tied them off on the four steel posts at the corners.

A tinny bell rang. Ryan batted his knuckles together twice in a habitual gesture. Strange to feel his own skin and bone. Big Mario and he were expected to fight bare-fisted.

Considering how much this crowd loved blood, he shouldn't have been surprised.

Ryan swallowed through a dry throat as he moved to face his opponent. A liquid-like, knee-weakening sensation sunk through him and it took Ryan a moment to recognize it as pure, unmitigated fear—fear for Hope if he didn't succeed in beating Mario.

No sooner was he aware of the emotion than he pushed it back to the periphery. Ryan knew what unbridled fear and anger could do to you in the ring.

Jesus Christ, was it his imagination or had he seen Chicago World's Fair posters of Big Mario posing as one of the many oddities on the circus-like atmosphere of the Midway Plaisance? Mario was a behemoth. A freak of nature, as far as Ryan could tell. The bald Algerian towered perhaps six inches over Ryan's six feet four. He wore a thick black mustache beneath a curved hook of a nose. The abundant hair at his upper lip almost covered a vicious-looking slash of a mouth. Muscle bulged on his shoulders, chest and arms, but he'd started to go to fat on his belly and back. The guy was thick everywhere, the sheer bulk of him being what had stunned Ryan when Jack pointed out Big Mario's entrance several minutes ago.

No wonder they claimed Mario could stop a carriage in its tracks. He looked about the weight of one of the steel-clad vehicles. The guy probably had in excess of 150 pounds on Ryan.

He was slow, though, Ryan reminded himself, trying his best to still his racing heart.

Ryan'd have to take advantage of his slothlike movement.

Mario lumbered forward to meet him at the center of the ring. He planted his big feet and came to a complete standstill, making it easy for Ryan to maintain the perfect distance.

The giant looked confused by Ryan's limber footwork. He swiped at him with the biggest paw Ryan'd ever seen in his life. Ryan avoided the punch with an almost negligible fade of his torso.

Difficult not to miss a huge, slow-moving target like that.

Mario took several more wide shots, which Ryan avoided with ease. The crowd jeered the big man's ineffective efforts. Since Mario was so cordial about leaving his big body as exposed as the desert to the wind, Ryan got in a few punches into the midriff.

Mario snarled in annoyance and came at him throwing a barrage of punches, most of which Ryan managed to either avoid, duck or minimize. The giant's technique was sloppy, so Ryan had no difficulty landing three tight jabs to Mario's midsection while his opponent continued to throw wide. The guy may have accumulated some flab on the gut, but he was solid as a rock beneath it. Still, he could tell by Mario's grunts and widening eyes that he'd aimed well.