Tonight’s poor-man’s MGM Grand was about sixty thousand square feet of cold air anchored by a concrete floor and four walls’ worth of dirty windows. The “octagon” was set up in the far corner, the eight-sided ring bolted in and surprisingly sturdy.

Then again, there were a lot of construction guys who were into this shit.

Isaac went past the pair of thick-necks who were handling the gambling and even they paid him respect, asking if he needed anything to drink or eat or whatever. Shaking his head, he went to the corner behind the ring and settled in, his back to the juncture of the walls. He was always the last to fight because he was the draw, but there was no telling when he’d be up. Most of the “fighters” didn’t last long, but every once in a while you got a pair of stayers who pawed at each other like two old grizzlies until even he was ready to yell, Enough, already.

There were no refs and things got stopped only when there was a heaving, red faced, walleyed idiot who was flat on his back with the winning urban warrior Weeblewobbling next to him on sweaty feet. You could go for anything, liver and family jewels included, and dirty tricks were encouraged. The one restriction was that you had to fight with whatever the good Lord gave you at birth: You couldn’t bring brass knuckles, chains, knives, sand, or any of that crap inside the wire.

When the first match got rolling, Isaac panned the faces in the crowd instead of what was doing in the ring. He was searching for the out-of-place, for the eyes that were on him, for the face he knew from the past five years instead of the five weeks since he’d been gone.

Man, he knew he shouldn’t have used his real name. When he’d gone for the fake ID, he should have chosen another. Sure, the social security wasn’t his own, but the name . . .

It had seemed important, however. A way to piss on the territory he was in, mark this fresh start as his own.

And maybe it had been a little bit of a taunt. A come-and-find-me-if-you-dare.

Now, though, he was kicking himself. Principles and scruples and all that ideology bullshit were not nearly as valuable as a viable heartbeat.

And he thought the promoter was a schmuck?

About forty-five minutes later, Kinko’s number one customer got up on the chicken wire and cupped his hands to yell over the crowd. The promoter was trying to be all Dana White, but Vanna was more like it in Isaac’s opinion.

“And now for our main attraction . . .”