Fixed Fight (Mike Chance series Book 2) Read online

  Mitchell answered. “Morning. Give us a bottle of whiskey and some set ups, maybe some lemons. We’ll be in the corner.”

  Mitchell walked the length of the bar and slid into the deep corner of a high-backed booth. Benny and Mike clambered in across from him. When they were settled, Mitchell took a beat-up leather cigar holder from his breast pocket and offered it around. He got no takers, so he shrugged his shoulders and took one for himself. He lit it and blew smoke. Mike and Benny sat in silence and kept their eyes on the bar.

  After a bit, the bartender came over with the whiskey and set-ups balanced precariously on a tray. He slapped the works down on the table, then tonged ice into the glasses from a small silver bucket.

  “We got it.” Mitchell stopped him. He took the bartender by the wrist and grabbed the tongs.

  The bartender didn’t like that. He pulled himself free and stormed off. When he was gone, Mitchell dropped the tongs on the table and started in on them. His tone was icy. “You boys are making me nervous.” He jabbed the air with his cigar as he made his points. “I got ears. I hear. We have our fighter. We have our mark. Now I hear this Judge that wants to cut in.”

  Benny leaned forward. He pitched his voice confident, it came off dishonest. “Everything is humming. The train is coming in on time.”

  “Well you can cut him in from your end. I’m sure that won’t be too costly.” Mitchell taunted.

  “You got information for me on the Judge, fella? If so, I’ll take care of him. No problem.” Mike picked up the bottle and poured a drink in a one glass with no ice.

  “You might be tough pal, but I’m no gull. I know who he is. I know the reputation. This is an awful big thing to take care of when it comes right down to it. ” Mitchell kept pushing. “I know you boys got a lot wrapped up in it.”

  “Maybe you’re the one that crooked it.” Mike spat the words at Mitchell.

  “Don’t start in with the hard talk. I rarely leave this hotel. I didn’t tell no one about nothing. And if I could point you to these fellas, I’d be glad too. I’d sell them to you for a dollar.”

  “Good to know.” Benny muttered under his breathe.

  “Why don’t you start pointing?” Mike took Mitchell up on it. He knew where the hotel dick was headed and wanted him to get there fast.

  “You want to know what I think?” Mitchell used his cigar to point out Benny. “I think it was your friend here. I think he’s got a big mouth always trying to impress the ladies.”

  “Well, you got him wrong when it comes to that last part.” Mike said.

  Mitchell smiled. Something in him switched and he came around and started to spill. “I got someone at the rink. I’ll give him a call. He’ll tell you whether or not your man from Colorado is doing any skating.”

  “What’s in it for you?” Mike sneered.

  “Ten more.” Mitchell answered.

  “We’ll give you five. Mike?” Benny looked to Mike for a decision.

  Mike didn’t hesitate. “Sure thing. Make the call.”

  “Fine. Five.” Mitchell sat back and puffed his cigar. He was proud of himself.

  Benny took advantage of the good mood. “Listen, Mitchell, Mike’ll be staying here in the hotel until he figures it out. You give him the information and it’ll go easier. In the meantime, you keep an eye on the door. If they come looking, give them something to see.” Benny leaned in and lowered his voice. “Nothing’s changing unless we change it. This town is wide open and I’m not gonna let those Colorado grafters come in here and close it down. That goes against my nature.”

  “Mine too.” Mike emptied his glass. “Now, make the call.”

  “Fine, but try and do me a favor. Don’t kill anyone in the hotel.” Mitchell slid out of the booth and stood up.

  “I’ll do my best.” Mike took another sip of his drink. “ Now, how about some steak and eggs?”

  “With potatoes.” Benny chimed in.

  Mitchell frowned and walked over to the bartender. His glance back at them was laced with poison.

  “I’d check your food. He doesn’t like you.” Mike got up and moved to the other side of the booth.

  “He doesn’t like you either.” Benny lit a cigarette and refilled his whiskey. Mike slugged the rest of his drink and put it on the table so Benny could fill it too. Their coordination was seamless.

  “You think this guy can tout?” Mike motioned at Mitchell who stood at the bar with the house phone to his ear and his cigar twitching in his left hand. The bartender had disappeared into the kitchen, so Mitchell had no one to look at while he muttered into the phone. Instead he stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  “Mitchell’s a top-notcher. He’ll bring him in.” Benny said.

  “The handoff?” Mike asked.

  “The handoff will be smooth. I’ve seen him do it.” Benny answered.

  “So the Judge stands in the way of a solid thing?” Mike swirled the whiskey around in the bottom of his glass.

  “Real solid. I mean solid enough that we could go the money route. Do the payoff. But, we would need time to get that together.”

  “I’m not paying the Judge. The only thing I’m paying for are the bullets.” Mike finished his drink.

  “That final?”

  “Yeah, that’s final. Help me find him, then get the hell out of my way.”

  At the bar, Mitchell hung up the house phone and picked up a tray with two steak and eggs meals piled on top of it. He brought it over and dropped it in front of them from a little too high up. The tray hit hard and bounced. Egg and potato spilled onto the table.

  Mitchell didn’t sit down. He hovered over them. “I talked to my brother-in-law, he sells concessions at the Polar Palace and runs a few numbers on the side. He said he’d keep an eye out, but there was a hiccup in his talk. I think he’s already seen’em. He’s just looking for his angle. When he finds it, he’ll call.”

  “What’s he look like?” Mike wanted to scare the hiccups out of this fellow himself.

  Mitchell shifted and flushed a little. “You go easy on him. I swear to God. I hear any stories about how you threw him off a roof or something and I’ll drop the whole state of California on you. This is my wife’s brother.”

  “Easy, Mitchie, no one’s gonna get hurt.” Benny tried to sound as reassuring as possible, but it didn’t take. He had too much grifter in him.

  Mitchell exhaled slowly and put his fingers to his temples and rubbed. He had already counted the money from this deal. He had counted it over and over too times to turn back now.

  Mitchell lowered his voice and said. “His name’s Roger. He wears it on a nametag.” With that, Mitchell turned on his heels and walked out the door.

  Mike and Benny finished their steaks in the dim bar. They didn’t speak. When Mike shrugged, Benny passed him the salt. Other than that, there was no communication at all. Benny left first. Mike didn’t go with him. He sat and finished another drink before he got up and headed out. On his way, he paused to grab a bottle of whiskey off the bar. The bartender saw him take it, but didn’t say a word.

  At this hour, the lobby was empty and quiet. Mike could hear his footsteps as he approached the front desk. The same hard kid from before was working the counter. The long days did not suit his humor. He handed Mike his key without a word of greeting, then turned his back on him.

  “You got ice?” Mike asked him

  “I’ll have it sent up.” The kid mumbled.

  Mike stepped forward, but a couple stumbled into the lobby on their upstairs to their room. Mike paused until the lobby was empty again and then lunged forward and grabbed the kid by the back of the collar. He spun him around and slammed the kid’s forehead down on the counter in one seamless motion. The kid went stiff and dropped like a stone. Mike went around to him and riffled his pockets. He found a few dollars and a pack of cigarettes. Mike stole the smokes.

  “I’ll get my own ice.” Mike whispered into the kid’s ear. The kid didn’t hear h
im.

  When he got to the room, Mike sat down by an open window and took off his shoes. He stretched out his legs in front of him, rested his bare feet on the sill, and started in on the whiskey he had stolen from the bar. Across the narrow alley from his room was another hotel. It was called The Melrose and he scanned the illuminated windows to catch a glimpse of bodies moving around in the rooms. No luck. The guests had pulled their curtains. They were protected.

  After a while, Mike gave up and settled back into his chair. He let his mind drift to Colorado and how he had left so much back in those mountains. It chafed on him. It had gone bad there the same way it went bad everywhere. The same way it would go bad here. He would forget himself. It was inevitable.

  Mike blinked to clear his head. It had started to hurt so he drowned the feeling with more whiskey and that sort of snapped him out of it. Maybe everything going bad wasn’t a sure thing. Things change. Things change all the time. Look at Tino. Mike closed his eyes and saw the gangster’s stone face. He saw Tino with his gun and Tino on the golf course in a ridiculous hat. Tino holding grudges and wanting to get even. Tino wasn’t grateful.

  Mike and Benny had cleared the way for Tino and given him a run at the top. So what if it was mostly by accident, they had done him a solid. Back on the boat Tino had been all smiles and co-operation, but he was full of it. He was out there driving golf balls into the ocean and dreaming of revenge. Revenge and country club golf courses. At some point, Mike passed out and the whiskey bottle fell from his hand and shattered on the floor. In the middle of the night, Mike got out of the chair and dragged himself to bed. On his way, he cut his foot on glass from the broken bottle. He didn’t notice.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mike woke up sometime in the early afternoon. During the night, his cut foot had bled all over the bottom corner of the sheet. Mike saw the stains as soon as he woke up, but he had to check himself all over before he found the cut. When he did, he tore off a strip of the sheet and wrapped it around the wound, then got out of bed and limped over to the windowsill. He took care not to step on anymore broken glass.

  At the window, he lit a cigarette from the pack he had stolen from the clerk and took another look at the hotel across the way. He stood there smoking and staring, but there was nothing to see this time either. After a few more puffs, he threw the smoke out the window. It was still burning.

  Mike walked across the room to a wash basin, filled it with water from a large metal jug, and washed himself. The water was cold and it cleared his mind. When he finished, he checked his watch. It was too early for the Polar Palace. He considered going back to his place to see if he could pick off another Colorado boy. Maybe one was lingering around. It wouldn’t be as easy this time, especially without Benny backing him up.

  Mike checked his watch and thought about killing the old man again. It didn’t make him smile like killing usually did. Mike drifted off to sleep thinking about it. When he woke up, it was dark outside. He stood up and stretched to his full height, almost touching the ceiling. Then he lit another cigarette and climbed out the window. The night air was cool and the breeze blew steady. It brought a strong smell of garbage with it.

  Mike jumped down and landed on his feet in the alley. He didn’t move an inch at first. He stayed in the shadows and kept his eyes peeled. No one had seen him, so he straightened his clothes and headed toward Hope street.

  It didn’t take a lot of walking for him to find what he wanted: a black Chevy Master De Luxe. It was parked in darkness under a street light that wasn’t doing its job. Mike was glad to see the Chevy. It was a good car. He had driven one back in Kansas City on a bank job. The job had gone bad, but it wasn’t the car’s fault.

  The car was unlocked and the keys were in it. As Mike pulled away from the curb, he heard some yelling after him “that’s my car!” Whoever was yelling that was a liar, it was Mike’s car and he was gone down 1st Street in seconds.

  Mike drove west to Hollywood in a hurry. When he pulled up to the Polar Palace, he slowed to a roll. Tonight was a weekday and there wasn’t a game or show. The rink was open to the general public. Mike had read that in the papers. Mike drove past and around the bloc and drove past the building a second time. This time he eyed the streets, looking for a Cadillac with Colorado plates like the one that Moses had seen the night before. He could not find it.

  Mike pulled around again and left the Chevy in the shadows opposite the Polar Palace. He left the car running and walked briskly across the street to the entrance. Mike passed under a white arch that had a placard declaring “Skates for rent inside!” The script was overly enthusiastic. Mike read the sign and flashed back to when the Judge took him skating one night in Denver. It was back when he had first crewed up with the old man. He smiled when he remembered how overjoyed the Judge was when he saw how Mike could skate.

  “That’ll be a nickel.” A pimply kid in a ridiculous uniform accosted Mike and snapped him out of it.

  Mike glared at him, but fished around in his pocket until he found a nickel. He slapped it down on the counter.

  “You can rent skates inside.” The kid took the coin and handed him a ticket. His hands were shaking.

  Inside the Polar Palace, it was warmer than Mike expected. The rink was heated by bright lights and the bodies of the skaters. The place was crowded: couples and kids and aficionados vied for space on the ice. Mike paused by the door. He knew right away the old man wasn’t there. He would have felt him. Instead Mike looked for any of the toughs he had known back in the Colorado. He didn’t see any of them, so he changed his focus and looked for the concession stand. He spotted it against the back wall: a narrow counter that ran the length of the place.

  In front of it, there was a large area cluttered with benches in narrow rows. Patrons sat there enjoying peanuts and drinks while they changed in and out of their skates. A lot of them were parents crouching down and putting skates on kids who showed no appreciation of the effort. Mike weaved his way through the crowd and made his way to the concession stand. Under his breath he muttered “Suckers.”

  The man working the concession counter wore a name tag that read Jack not Roger. This wasn’t his contact, but Mike sidled up to the counter with a dollar in his hand all the same.

  “Can I help you?” Jack’s question slipped out the side of a rictus grin.

  “Peanuts.” Mike slid the bill across the counter.

  Jack didn’t take it. Instead he turned away and scooped the peanuts out of a large old-fashioned roaster behind him. There was a corn popper too. Together the food machines made the air by hot and smelly. Jack turned and handed Mike the peanuts. He reached for the dollar, but Mike didn’t let go of it. After a failed tug on the bill, a cold bitterness crept behind the concessionaire’s face. Mike sensed anger in him and liked him even more, but he didn’t let him have the dollar.

  “Where’s Roger?” Mike asked.

  “Roger’s out back having a smoke” Jack pulled harder on the dollar. Mike let go and Jack pocketed it in a flash, then thumbed at a nearby exit door. “Go through there.”

  Mike shoveled a handful of peanuts into his mouth and made his way toward the exit. They were stale and too salty. but Mike ate another handful before he threw the bag away. The exit door was heavy and didn’t move easily. Mike had to work hard on the metal push-bar. Finally the door swung open and Mike stepped into the alley behind the rink. The breeze had picked up and a parade of paper trash tumbled by. The air was fresh and cool compared to inside. Mike breathed it in deep.

  The door closed behind him and revealed a tall bald man in a concessionaire’s uniform leaning against the back wall and stubbing a cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe. He smiled at Mike. His nametag said Roger. He was an older guy and he was not dumb. He had seen Mike coming from a mile away.

  “You one of the fellas that made that deal with Mitchell?” Roger used his words like he was looking for a crack to wedge open.

  “Yeah, you got it.” Mike answe
red. He couldn’t believe it. Every last man in this town was a chiseler.

  Rogers stuck out his hand. Mike shook it and squeezed hard. Roger pulled his hand away quickly and sneered. “Come on, fella. Don’t play hard with me. There’s plenty of sugar to go around.”

  Roger reached into his pocket. Mike stepped back and reached into his. Roger smiled and pulled his hand out slowly. He had a pack of Chesterfields and he offered one to Mike. Mike took it, but kept his hand in his pocket gripping the Red 9. Roger struck a match and offered the flame. Mike leaned in close and lit his smoke.

  “You seen the man I’m lookin’ for?” Mike backed off a little after he sparked.

  “Maybe.” Roger smiled like a racer out in front by a mile.

  Mike didn’t answer. He looked at the red cinder on the end of his smoke. The wind whipped off sparks. Mike put the smoke between his lips and pocketed his left hand. Now he had both hands jammed in his coat pockets. He stood there glaring. Roger could see the indent of the barrel of the pistol in the fabric of the jacket. He was quick on the up take. He wavered and started talking.

  “They were here this morning, they skated by themselves, five or six of them. I remember because we don’t normally open on weekday mornings. We only open weekend mornings. Weekday morning’s are usually for maintenance and team practice.” Roger had started sweating.

  “Who let’em in?” Mike stepped back and gave Roger room to breathe.

  “Buddy, I can’t tell you what I don’t know. They were already here when I came in to set up concessions and get the peanuts roasting, ya know. They probably just spread some money around.”

  Roger tried move past Mike and go inside. He grabbed the back door and started to open it. Mike didn’t let him. He straight-armed it closed with his left hand. Roger pulled hard on the handle, but the door didn’t budge. Roger’s eyes shifted about the alley. Mike’s strength unnerved him and he gave up trying to get away.

  “Listen mister, what do you want to know? I don’t want no trouble. I’m here to help. Just ask Mitchell. I’m good people.” Roger was begging now.