It’s only a few hours before the fourth fight, and I still don’t know what I’m going to do about Krupin’s request. Or demand, I should say. That’s what it really is. He expects me to take a dive. And I probably should do it.
But I don’t want to.
I’ve never lost a fight yet.
And more than that, I never fought rigged.
I don’t have a lot in this world. I’ve got no house, no watches, no cars—just a small amount of savings hidden behind a brick in my wall. I’ve got no family and no famous name.
The one thing I have is my word. I have never lied or cheated anyone. And I never took a dive in a fight.
It’s pride, plain and simple.
Integrity is a luxury in my world. People sell it cheap, but once you lose it, you can hardly get it back for any price.
Look at Krupin. He was betrayed by his brother. He wanted revenge. But he broke the code when he killed his own nephews. He’s been scrambling for ten years since, trying to prove that he’s trustworthy, that he’s done his penance and should be welcomed back into the fold. He’s got to grovel in front of Stepanov, and maybe even offer him Sasha wrapped up in a bow, just for the privilege of handing over half his business, so Stepanov will endorse him.
That’s the cost to try to buy your name back.
I’m pacing the floor, trying to decide what to do. Okalina watches me silently from her favorite perch on the divider between the bedroom and the kitchenette.
As soon as I sit down on the bed, she leaps down, pads over to me, and jumps up on my lap.
I think she’s getting fatter already. At least, she’s not painfully thin anymore. Her soot-gray fur is becoming sleeker, too. I run my hand down her back, carefully because I still feel a little awkward, never having owned an animal before.
I kept telling myself I would take her to the shelter. I said it every morning for three days. Then I admitted that I didn’t really want to. It was nice, hearing her run to the door when I came home at night.
Other than her crying on the fire escape, she’s the quietest creature imaginable. She doesn’t make a sound, beyond the occasional purr. I like her silence. It matches my own. Plus, I don’t have mice getting into my cabinets anymore.
Okalina’s weight is comforting, but I still don’t know what to do.
Meyer sounds his horn from outside my window.
I snatch up my duffle bag and set Okalina gently down on my pillow before I leave the apartment, locking the door behind me.
In the car, Boom Boom says, somewhat awed, “Four hundred K is a serious purse. You’re gonna be rich, Snow!”
“Minus twenty percent,” Meyer reminds him.
“What do you need eighty thousand rubles for?” Boom Boom laughs, “You gonna buy a new hat? That one’s older than Lenin’s corpse.”
“I could get a new speed bag,” Meyer says dryly. “Some idiot ripped the last one off its hook.”
“That was already broken!” Boom Boom says. “Come on—you know I don’t punch that hard.”
“What if I don’t win?” I say.
Meyer and Boom Boom shut up immediately, staring at me.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Meyer says.
“Krupin wants me to take a dive in the second round,” I tell them.
“And why in the fuck would you want to do that?” Meyer says.
“He said to do him a favor.”
“That’s not a favor,” Meyer snorts. “That’s a firstborn child.”
“He’d owe you one for sure,” Boom Boom says, his eyes round. “Bratva always pay their debts.”
“I don’t want him to owe me one,” I say. “I want to win the tournament.”
“So do it, then,” Meyer says.
I glance over at him. He looks keen and stern, hunched over the wheel.
“Krupin will be pissed,” I say.
“Yeah, probably,” Meyer replies.
Boom Boom lets out a low whistle.
“How pissed d’ya think?” he says nervously.
I just shrug.
I don’t know what Krupin will do if I defy him.
But I guess I’ll find out.
I show up at the warehouse, still figuring I’ll be paired against the Rabbi. But when I see the betting board, I realize I’m fighting Stacks. Which means the Rabbi is up against the Beast.
“What did they do that for?” Boom Boom says.
I shake my head. I have no idea.
Now that we’re down to four fighters, it’s just the Rabbi and me in the west locker room, Stacks and the Beast on the opposite side.
The Rabbi looks pale and quiet. He’s wrapping and unwrapping his hands, trying to get them just right.
“Hey,” I say. “You see the board?”
The Rabbi nods.
“Listen,” I say, “you should just forfeit. He’s way outside your weight class, nobody will think worse of you.”
The Rabbi scowls. He gets to his feet, bouncing lightly on his toes. His slight frame is only more apparent from this position: 5’8, 150 lbs. max.
“I took down Butterball just fine,” he says.
It’s not my place to argue with him. It’s poor form to psych somebody out before a fight. But I like the Rabbi, and I respect him. Too much to stay quiet.
“The Beast ain’t Butterball,” I tell him, bluntly. “The Beast is a fucking animal. I went out with him the other night, and I—“
“I know what he is,” the Rabbi interrupts me. “I’ll knock him out, and I hate to say it, but I’ll knock you out too, Snow, if I face you in the last match. I’m winning this tournament, the whole thing. I got a shot and I’m taking it.”
His expression is composed, utterly decided. Nothing I say is going to change his mind.
“Alright,” I say. “Good luck, Rabbi.”
“Good luck, brother.”
He holds out his fist. I hit it with mine.
We drift apart to opposite sides of the room, to get our heads clear before our fights.
“Hey,” a soft voice calls.
I look up. Sasha is standing in the doorway.
I pull her into the adjoining room before anyone can see her. The only thing in here is an ice machine, so the cornermen can fill bags with crushed ice to cool the boxers between rounds.
“What are you doing here?” I say in a low voice.
“I wanted to wish you luck,” Sasha says.
Behind the slim frames of her glasses, her blue eyes look worried.
She’s wearing her sensible doctor clothes again. I can never decide which Sasha I like best—the posh little rich girl, the sexy siren in the red dress, or the clever professional. I like them all. More than I can say.
Just the sight of her raises my spirits. I’m not worrying about Krupin, or the upcoming fight. I’m thinking that she snuck out of the infirmary to see me because she cares about me. She wants me to win.
I grab her arm, pulling her close to me.
“If you really want to wish me luck,” I growl, “you’ll give me more than a smile.”
“I’m not smiling at you,” she says, trying to hold back her grin.
“Yes, you are,” I say.
I crush her mouth against mine.
The moment our lips touch, I feel a surge of energy like a jolt from a car battery. It pours through my veins, down to the very tips of my fingers and toes. I feel powerful, invincible. I know I’m going to win the fight.
I let go of her, and she stumbles back a step. Her blue eyes are wider than ever.
“How do you do that to me?” she says.
“I’m going to do a lot more than that to you,” I tell her. “Meet me tonight. After the fight.”
“Where?” she says.
“Come to my apartment. It doesn’t matter how late.”
“I’ll be there,” she says.
I’m about to turn around and head back to the locker room, but she calls after me, “Wait!”
She’s holding out a little package, wrapped in brown paper.
I stare at it stupidly.
“What’s that?” I say.
“It’s nothing,” she says, flushing. “Just something I saw in a shop. It made me think of you.”
I take it from her, feeling strangely off-kilter. Nobody’s given me a gift in my life. My uncle took care of me, but he wasn’t sentimental. My parents never even considered it. No gifts at the orphanage, of course.
My fingers fumble at the wrapping, trying several times before I manage to unwrap the string.
Inside is a globe, about the size of a softball. The transparent glass contains a tiny replica of New York City, with the circular arena of Madison Square Garden clearly visible between Times Square and the Empire State Building.
“Look,” Sasha says.
She takes the globe gently from my hands and turns it over. When she rights it again, thick flakes of white drift down on the city.
“Snow on Madison Square Garden,” she says, laughing softly. “It’s cheesy, I know . . .”
“It isn’t!” I say, my voice a little strangled. “It’s beautiful.”
Sasha looks up into my eyes again.
“You’re going there,” she says.
Her voice is full of certainty and hope. Hope on my behalf.
“I wish I had something to give you back,” I tell her.
“You don’t have to give me anything!” Sasha laughs.
I will, though. When I think of something good enough.
I kiss her once more before I let her go.
This kiss is longer, and more tender.
I’ve never been given a gift before. And I’ve never kissed a woman with all of my heart. When it comes to love, I’m as inexperienced as Sasha.
I don’t want to let go of her.
“Remember, tonight,” I say.
“I’ll be there,” Sasha promises.
I head back into the locker room, feeling like I’m floating.
“Where’d you go?” Boom Boom says. He’s carrying my duffle bag, plus a hot pretzel he picked up along the way. Krupin is selling food as well as drinks now. It’s a carnival out there.
“Nowhere,” I say.
“What’s that?”
He’s pointing to the globe, which I’ve loosely wrapped in brown paper again.
“Mind your own business!” I say rudely, wrapping the package carefully in a spare shirt and stowing it inside the duffle bag.
Meyer comes in too, having had to walk farther than ever after parking the car.
“How come you’re not ready?” he demands.
The Rabbi looks over at us, raising an eyebrow. He saw Sasha at the door. But he won’t tell anyone.
“I’m getting ready,” I say to Meyer.
“Do it faster,” he snaps.
My match is first, facing off against Big Stacks.
I hadn’t expected to fight him tonight. Still, I’m ready to do it. I’m buoyed up by the sight of Sasha. I feel untouchable.
Big Stacks is better known for his outlandish outfits than his win record, but he’s no slouch in the ring. He’s made it this far in the tournament for a reason.
Of course, you could argue that he wouldn’t have won the last match if he weren’t such a crowd favorite. As Stepanov and I discussed at dinner, the actual point count put Lights Out ahead.
That’s part of the game in underground boxing. You’ve either got to win big enough to make it obvious, or you have to make it fun for the crowd, so you get them on your side.
I head out first, head down in my white robe, “Lose Yourself” blaring from the speakers hung around the ring.
I’ve gathered a fair number of fans of my own by this point. I can hear them chanting “SNOW! SNOW! SNOW! SNOW!” as I make the long walk up to the ring.
Glancing to my right, I can see Krupin seated at the biggest table, Stepanov right beside him. Krupin’s arms are folded across his chest. He taps two fingers against his left bicep, reminding me to go down in the second round.
I don’t give him any sign of acknowledgment. I just shove my mouth guard between my teeth and strip off my robe, handing it to Boom Boom.
Meyer rubs Vaseline over my face, especially on the still-healing cut over my left eye.
He squints at me through his thick glasses.
“Knock him out, Snow,” he says.
My song cuts out, and “Eye of the Tiger” starts blaring instead.
The crowd roars with glee.
Big Stacks has convinced someone to set off firecrackers around the locker room door, so he bursts out in a whirl of sparks and smoke, a long gold cloak swirling behind him. He’s wearing gold-lame gloves, and black shorts with a golden eagle across his crotch. His boxing shoes are way taller than regulation height, with golden wings painted on the side. He’s got his hair braided in cornrows, and I swear he sprayed glitter in it.
The crowd goes insane at the sight of him. He’s grinning and blowing kisses, jogging up to the ring.
I’m not paying any attention to him. I’m looking toward the infirmary, to see if Sasha is peeking out. I can just see her slim figure standing in the doorway.
I have to tear my eyes away from her. I face off against Big Stacks. He gives me a low, mocking bow.
As soon as the bell rings, however, he comes at me hard. Just because Big Stacks dresses like a circus, doesn’t mean he’s a clown. He’s fast and he’s fucking sneaky too.
He starts off with a little shoeshine—a combo of flashy punches that look impressive, but don’t do any damage. But then he hits me with some nasty body shots that mostly come at the belt or right beneath it.
One almost hits me in the groin. I shove him off, angrily grunting, “Watch it!”
Big Stacks just grins around his mouth guard, dancing away.
He charges me again, punching fast and reckless, not being too careful to protect his head.
It occurs to me that Krupin probably told him I’m going down in the second round. That’s why he isn’t worried—he thinks he has this thing in the bag.
I give him a hard shot to the face to show him otherwise. His head snaps back, wiping the smile right off his face.
Now he brings his gloves up properly, eyeing me warily.
We circle around each other as Stacks reevaluates.
He comes in again, managing to land a glancing blow off my forehead. But I hit him twice in the gut, hard enough that he staggers backward.
The bell rings, signaling the end of the round. We retreat to our respective corners.
Meyer puts a cool towel around my shoulders.
“You got this, kid,” he says. “He’s all flash and no fire.”
Round two, I feel Krupin’s eyes boring into me. I know he’s watching my every move, waiting for me to fall.
Big Stacks has returned with renewed optimism. He thinks I’m going down, too. He’s throwing haymakers at me, trying to land a solid punch so I can fall convincingly.
I swat them all away. He’s not hitting me, and I’m not going down.
Instead I go to work on Stacks. I tag him again and again, in the face and the body. He’s starting to get mad, thinking I’m just making myself look good before the dive.
One minute passes. Then two. As the last seconds of the round tick away, I can feel Krupin’s rage, though I’m not looking over at him. I know he’s counting down in his head, counting down to my betrayal.
The bell rings, and round two is over. I turn away from Big Stacks, ready to head back to my corner.
In sheer desperation, Big Stacks hits me with a monster suck punch from the side. It gets me right in the temple, bringing me down to my knee.
The crowd howls its displeasure. The chorus of boos is like a waterfall crashing down on Big Stacks’ head.
The ref glances over at Krupin. Krupin nods, telling the ref to continue the fight. But the foul was too blatant. The crowd won’t stop booing. They get louder and louder, stomping their feet against the bleachers and chanting “THROW HIM OUT! THROW HIM OUT!”
The ref has to disqualify Big Stacks, handing me the win. I raise my fist over my head, but there’s little triumph in it. I can see Krupin’s face, black with rage.
