Getting to his feet, he willed the safe door closed and relocked. And just as he was wondering if he was going to have to get out his trusty little 007 whammy-box again to close the panel, the wall section came down and clicked into place automatically.
For a moment, all he could do was stare at the vacant white Sheet-rock between the parted sea of the tuxedo jackets. Closing his eyes, he felt an emptiness that—
“What are you doing?”
At the sound of the female voice, Balz spun around. Standing in the doorway that led in from the bedroom, the Mrs. of the triplex was directly under one of the ceiling fixtures—which meant her diaphanous nightgown was utterly translucent.
Well, Mr. Hedge Fund Manager, Balz thought, you certainly did well for yourself at the altar.
“What are you doing here?” Balz tossed back with a slow smile. “You two are supposed to be in Paris.”
As Ralphie zipped up his pants and Chelle reorganized herself under her skirt, he was razor-alert but not buzzing, the orgasm having taken the edge off the coke. Locking his molars, he curled up his arms and tightened all the muscles in his upper body, the torsion curving his spine forward, his lips coming off his front teeth, his bones bending.
The sound he made brought his crew’s faces around.
“He’s ready! He’s the monster!”
At that moment, like the “officials” had been waiting for him to bust his nut, the air horn sounded down at the far end of the garage level.
His crew started chanting, and Chelle came up and leaned into him. He kissed her forehead and said ILY quietly enough so no one but her heard. Then he walked forward, his boys forming a spear of bodies ahead of him, Chelle bringing up the rear. When they penetrated the crowd, people got out of their way, the cheering reaching volumes that would have attracted attention—if anyone had been anywhere near this shitty part of town.
Inside, Ralphie was smiling. Outside, he was all about the fuck-you.
The Reverend had arranged this bout three days ago, with some out-of-towner who had no record and a name no one had heard of. So this was going to be a piece of fucking cake.
“Monster! Monster!”
His crew was chanting his name, and the crowd picked up on it and carried the ball. And even though he knew she was watching, he had to glance back to make sure Chelle was checking this out. She was. Her chin was down, but her eyes were on him, and she had a secret smile on her face that made him feel taller than he was. Thicker than he was. Stronger than he was.
She was his source of strength.
’Cuz he wanted to see that little happy on her face all the time.
Ralphie pulled himself together and refocused on the bodies that were getting out of the way for him. As he closed in on the fighting area, he entered a field of sallow illumination thrown by the running lights of the few cars that had been allowed through the barricades down at street level. The crowd started to go even nutserer when they got a better look at him, and he pretended that he was in the WWE and about to crack a skull in the ring.
Even though all he had was a red circle spray-painted on the stained concrete.
There were two circles, actually, the inner about fifteen feet across, the outer providing a five-foot buffer that the crowd was not supposed to get into—but always did by the ends of the matches. At the start, they followed the rules, though, so he left his crew behind as he alone went into the punch zone.
Beneath his boots, the dried bloodstains from last week’s fight were the color of mud, and he cracked his knuckles as he paced around, his heart pumping as he remembered breaking that nose and knocking out those teeth. As he psyched himself up, the crowd—even his boys and Chelle—disappeared from him. Everything went goodbye. He was in himself and of himself. In himself, of himself. In himself—
As the mantra began to repeat and repeat, a train catching at its tracks, the momentum creating its own kind of surge, he sank his weight into his knees and went from boot to boot with his lean. Fists up, biceps curled, eyes barely blinking, he focused across the circle, at the ring of bodies that had yet to part to reveal his opponent.
Bouncing.
Breathing.
Bouncing.
Breathing . . .
After a minute and a half of that shit, Ralphie got pretty fucking impatient. What the fuck. Where was the motherfucker? Fucking pussy-ass, out-of-town fuck—
All of the sudden, people in front of him started vibing like they were uncomfortable, heads ripping back and forth like some kind of shit was going down. And then they were moving too quick, a few tripping in the scramble.