“How many rounds?”

“Mills heard he went thirteen last night for sure. And lost by KO.”

“Then what’s he doing here?”

“Rent,” Steve said. “Two kids, a pregger wife.”

“Fucking rent?”

The crowd was on its feet—the walls shuddering, the rafters shimmying. If the roof suddenly shot straight up into the sky, Danny doubted he’d feel surprise. Johnny Green entered the ring without a robe. He stood in his corner and banged his gloves together, his eyes staring up at something in his skull.

“He doesn’t even know where he is,” Danny said.

“Yeah, he does,” Steve said, “and he’s coming to the center.”

“Steve, for Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t ‘Christ’s sake’ me. Get in there.”

In the center of the ring, the referee, Detective Bilky Neal, a former boxer himself, placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “I want a clean fight. Barring that, I want it to look clean. Any questions?”

Danny said, “This guy can’t see.”

Green’s eyes were on his shoes. “See enough to knock your head off.”

“I take my gloves off, could you count my fingers?”

Green raised his head and spit on Danny’s chest.

Danny stepped back. “What the fuck?” He wiped the spittle off on his glove, wiped his glove on his shorts.

Shouts from the crowd. Beer bottles shattered against the base of the ring.

Green met his eyes, Green’s sliding like something on a ship. “You want to quit, you quit. In public, though, so I still get the purse. Just grab the megaphone and quit.”

“I’m not quitting.”

“Then fight.”

Bilky Neal gave them a smile that was nervous and furious at the same time. “They’s getting restless out there, gents.”

Danny pointed with a glove. “Look at him, Neal. Look at him.”

“He looks fine to me.”

“This is bullshit. I—”

Green’s jab caught Danny’s chin. Bilky Neal backed up, top speed, and waved his arm. The bell rang. The crowd roared. Green shot another jab into Danny’s throat.

The crowd went crazy.

Danny stepped into the next punch and wrapped Green up. As Johnny delivered half a dozen rabbit punches into Danny’s neck, Danny said, “Give it up. Okay?”

“Fuck you. I need…I…”

Danny felt warm liquid run down his back. He broke the clinch.

Johnny cocked his head as pink foam spilled over his lower lip and dribbled down his chin. He’d stood like that for five seconds, an eternity in the ring, arms down by his side. Danny noticed how childlike his expression had become, as if he’d just been hatched.

Then his eyes narrowed. His shoulders clenched. His hands rose. The doctor would later tell Danny (when he’d been stupid enough to ask) that a body under extreme duress often acts out of reflex. Had Danny known that at the time, maybe it would have made a difference, though he was hard-pressed to see how. A hand rising in a boxing ring rarely meant anything but what one naturally assumed. Green’s left fist entered the space between their bodies, Danny’s shoulder twitched, and his right cross blew up into the side of Johnny Green’s head.