Hilario’s perch was a patrol car, suitable to his official stature. Though there were some familiar faces from Santa Fe, the crowd was mainly cattlemen from Ama-rillo and El Paso. Creased faces, hats of doe felt and big thumbs on rolls of cash. Faces more comfortable in a country-fair tent than any arena. Sporting men who expected some blood for their money, made from wartime contracts. Hilario was the perfect timekeeper for them because he stopped a round only when he thought it was the right moment to bet again. He had no sense of fairness, but he had an instinct for drama. Across from Hilario, Pollack watched from inside his white Cadillac. The MPs hung back, as Joe had told them to.

“Time,” Hilario shouted.

The kid came out popping the right jab again. He had a bullethead of close-cut dirty hair, more dirty curls on wide shoulders and down the back of a thick neck. Small nose and round brow designed for a fighter. Narrow chin with a sandy stubble. Thin lips with a broad smile. Nineteen years old, maybe twenty. He had a stomach of snake-white muscle and, in the middle of it, a pink root of glossy scar tissue that spread up from his belt. Either an accident or an operation by a butcher. Joe slipped the jab, hooked, crossed and threw another looping hook without hitting the boy once. The kid jabbed in return and found the fault line in Joe’s eyebrow. It was a seam full of promise, and he found it twice more before Joe covered up. He attacked the ribs, trying to get Joe’s guard down so he could pound the brow again.

There were different philosophical levels to a fight. Joe felt it was important to understand where an opponent’s strength came from. Some boxers just had arm strength; some had to come forward off their legs. The kid had speed and balance, but Joe suspected madness, more even than the typical washed-out, brainless Texas madness. It would take time to locate the source, but a fight between big men should have the pace of a long and penetrating conversation.

The kid backed Joe against the grille of a truck. When Joe clinched, clamping the kid’s fists under his arms, the kid snapped his blunt head forward and butted Joe in the temple. Joe dropped to a knee, but there was no rush of red onto the ground, so the brow was okay. He rose, backpedaled and jabbed until Hilario called time.

As Joe sat down, Ray swabbed his forehead with petroleum jelly. “He’s trying to cut you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Joe ran his tongue around his mouth and counted teeth.

“Captain Augustino’s here, sitting over in the bar.”