The Sound of the Bell

Dickens’s novella A Christmas Carol has been rewritten and adapted many times. Four of us got together and decided to move it through time and space. It came across the ocean, from London to the Big Apple, and one hundred and seventy-eight years forward … minus two months.

We each took a part, shortened the story a bit, and took the minor liberty of ignoring the medical situation of the present day.

We hope you enjoy it.

—Bebop3, RiverMaya, vanmyers86, chasten

 

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Chapter 1 

I stood on the sidewalk, people-watching. Two hundred years ago this neighborhood would have been considered a paradise. Running water? Indoor toilets? Refrigeration? Astonishing. Few people went hungry and luxuries were abundant. For most of the history of mankind, this would have been considered miraculous. Still, today’s residents bemoaned their fates and envied those who had it better.

The church behind me wasn’t opulent, wasn’t ornate and wasn’t large. It was, however, scrupulously maintained. Every inch was scrubbed, polished and cleaned regularly. Love, piety and dedication abounded in this modest building.

It was only slightly warmer inside than on the streets, and the petitioners in the church wore their coats and jackets as they prayed in the chilly house of worship. I found the weather bracing and relished being amongst people and all of their little idiosyncrasies. I’d nod good naturedly and tip my nonexistent hat as they walked by me, ignoring my presence.

There were so many misconceptions. I greatly admired those that did good. Trust me, few knew better than I how difficult it was to stay on the straight and narrow. I held such people in the very highest of regards.

I felt good about this year. So much time had passed but I maintained my vigil. If Mariel could return with such single-mindedness, so could I. Year after year, she came to this church the nine days before Halloween and prayed while I waited. I was her silent shadow, standing outside, always patient, always ready.

Mariel worked her fingers over the rosary, ignoring her aching knees as she prayed for Lucas O’Grady; the businessman, the landlord, the promoter, the manager, the pugilistic legend who’d never stepped foot in the ring to fight. Halloween was nigh, the anniversary of her father’s death. She prayed, prayed, prayed and I silently urged her on.

Ending her prayers, she kissed the rosary, made the sign of the cross and I alone heard the tolling of the bell. Finally! My eyes looked skyward and my lips curled into a smile. People walking near me suddenly shivered and turned away. I tugged on the sleeve of my bespoke suit, checked my immaculate hair and stretched.

I was unshackled. I was free to act. My time had finally come. With the greatest of care, I reached into the interior pocket of my jacket, pulled out the velvet container and retrieved the white mask. A holdover from better days, I wore it to remind myself of the greatness possible in every man, even one whose life had, so far, fallen short.

I stepped from Here to There and stood in front of O’Grady.

“Hello, Lucas. I bring you greetings on this All Hallows’ Eve. I’m the first to visit you this evening, but I won’t be the last.”

 

Chapter 2 

Lucas O’Grady sat at his desk, confused and unable to move, transfixed by the sight of the stranger in front of him. He’d just finished reading the last page of his divorce settlement and was actually pleased that his lawyer had found a way so that Caitlin, his soon-to-be ex-wife, would be getting far less than what she had expected (and deserved). The lack of tiny feet pattering had turned out to be a blessing and the prenup he had her sign twelve years before certainly helped.

He had spent the whole day in the study of his posh Manhattan penthouse, ironing out the last details of the latest fight he was handling; it was only a day away, Halloween to be exact. Everything was in place for “All Tricks, No Treats,” with Davin Abascal and Juan Adigue, until ESPN called him the day before to inform him that they wouldn’t be able to air the taped interviews and short bios of the two fighters until after Halloween. But he pulled some strings, called in a few favors and got an even better deal from NBC. No wonder, he was numero uno, he was the man every manager sought if they wanted their boy to get to the top, and he certainly had elevated more than a few of them… three had already been inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame… and two more of his current fighters were shoe-ins, one was already being touted the “Greatest Of All Time.” Every fight, and fighter, he’d promoted earned… and it earned BIG – stadium seats, pay-for-view, thirty-minute pre-fight TV bios, “live” weigh-ins and interviews that Luke turned into major altercations between the combatants – Luke had mastered them all.

Of course, there were the chumps, the few expendable ones who’d had to be “sacrificed” on the altar, or in this case, in the center of the square ring, but only Luke O’Grady and a very select few knew about them and the tactics he had to employ to ensure the lowest risks and the most favorable outcome for everyone involved; boxing was a sport where the prize money was big… and the back-room deals were even bigger.

He was deep into his third scotch, when this – stranger – just materialized in the middle of his study. He looked to be about Luke’s age, slightly shorter and slimmer. His three-piece suit was well-made, tailored close to his body, the narrow waist accentuating his slenderness, the trousers pleated and ironed to perfection. But the strangest thing about him was the white Zorro-like mask he wore, it hid half of his face so that one’s attention was drawn to the silver eyes that gazed out from behind the slits.

Thinking it was the liquor messing with his wits, Lucas said the one word he understood:

“Visit?”

The man nodded, and smiled – almost invitingly.

“Yes, three visitors and forgive me, I have been terribly remiss, I am Stephen.”

“Just Stephen?”

“For now… yes. Come, you have far too many things to do and many places to go to, tonight.”

He laid a cold hand on Luke’s sleeve and guided him gently out to the living-room and up the long staircase that led to the second floor of the penthouse, all the while keeping a light conversation going with his bemused host. Luke obeyed, and even found himself answering the stranger’s questions: yes, he had promoted the last three mega-fights, all of them in Vegas, but this latest one would be here in New York, at Madison Square Garden, the Mecca of Boxing, as a homage to the all the big fights that had been held there before the lights of Nevada drew everything west; an odd thing for him to do, because Lucas O’Grady never gave anything away for free.

“Ahh, I remember those fights,” Stephen said, wistfully, “Tyson-Green, Holyfield-Lewis, Ali-Frazier, one and two…”

“Ali-Frazier? That was in the seventies and you saw both fights?” Luke asked, surprised, as his uninvited guest did not look a day over fifty.

“And the Thrilla in Manila, of course. I even saw Marciano and Louis back in ’51. But that is ancient history, there is another fight I’d like to talk about, one that is more recent. You promoted the Kolosov-Baquiran match, didn’t you?”

Luke stopped as they reached the top of the stairs and looked at Stephen, one eyebrow raised.

“That was years ago, I… wasn’t a promoter yet, I was Alejo Baquiran’s friend and manager.”

“Ahh, I see, that explains why.”

Luke was about to ask what he meant, but they had reached the door to his bedroom; Stephen opened it and waved Luke to enter first, as the clock downstairs struck the hour.

“It’s ten, time to begin.”

“Wait,” Luke said, “I’ve played along with your… game, but don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”

Stephen sighed.

“I’ll try to explain,” he said, as if he were talking to a child, “you will have three visitors, each is tasked to show you specific times in your life, when your actions were – shall we say, less than stellar – you’ve been given many gifts, Luke, by the people I represent, but you have wasted them all. It is hoped that by showing you where you erred, you can set things right again.”

“What happens if I can’t or won’t?”

“Then there will be dire consequences for you, Luke. Very few people are given an opportunity like this, my friend. Count yourself lucky that my associates were persuaded to give you one.”

“Who persuaded them?”

“Someone has been praying very hard for this to happen to you, Luke. It would be a shame not to take advantage of it.”

Luke nodded.

Once again, Stephen placed a cold hand on Luke’s arm and guided him, this time to the adjoining bathroom.

“Watch the mirror,” he whispered into Luke’s ear.

The huge mirror on the opposite wall began to recede as a mist started forming on its surface, swirling and blurring the reflections it held. It moved so far back that it looked like a postage stamp; then, just as quickly, it began to surge forward again. Luke felt the first sliver of fear inch up his spine as Stephen started pushing him towards the mirror; this dream was turning dangerous, he thought. He tried to resist, but his feet refused to obey; instead, they carried him faster and closer to the mirror as everything turned dark and from far away, he heard the ding of a boxing bell. He closed his eyes, readying himself for the sound of breaking glass.

“You can open your eyes now, Luke,” Stephen whispered.

Luke did and as the dark mist started clearing, he found himself face to face with a new stranger; but this one wasn’t as fashionably attired as Stephen; he was wearing a boxing robe and a full head gear covered his entire face.

“Meet your first visitor,” Stephen said.

The boxer, Luke didn’t know what else to call him, held out a hand. Luke took it and it was even colder than Stephen’s. When he tried to let go, the boxer’s grip tightened.

Stephen smiled reassuringly.

“He wants you to go with him.”

The boxer tugged at Luke’s hand.

“What…”

Before he could say another word, Luke found himself back in Jimmy Riordan’s gym, a place he hadn’t seen for twenty years.

“This… this is crazy,” Luke whispered, “I can’t be here now, this gym’s been closed for years.”

“Oh, but you aren’t here now, Luke, you’re here, back when it was still open,” Stephen said, “and don’t worry no one can see you. I have to leave now, but I’ll look in on you from time to time. Our friend here,” he clapped the silent boxer on the shoulder, “will take care of you.”

The boxer merely nodded; and just as quickly as he had appeared, Stephen vanished.

Muffled voices and the sound of glove hitting glove drew Luke’s attention to the ring. Two fighters were sparring, one was African-American, the other Latino, both young, tall and lean; middle-weight class, Luke quickly figured. The African-American was quick, and his footwork was good, but the Latino, though slower, definitely had more power. He evaded a one-two combination then let loose with a strong left upper-cut to his opponent’s mid-section, the other boxer quickly doubled over in pain. When the Latino turned around, Luke saw his face for the first time and realized it was Alejo Baquiran.

“You got him, Alejo!” someone shouted.

Luke glanced at the young man on the other side of the ring who was rooting for Alejo… and saw a younger version of himself jump over the ropes and embrace the Latino. The two young men exchanged high fives and walked over to where old Jimmy Riordan, the trainer and owner of the gym was standing, the familiar toothless smile painted on his weathered face; he’d lost almost all of his front teeth from fighting and had his nose broken at least twice. But Jimmy was rather proud of his crooked proboscis.

“Makes me look distinguished,” he’d often say.

Luke watched as his younger self and Alejo listened intently to the trainer; he saw the two young men nod as Jimmy ducked and weaved against an imaginary opponent, explaining the importance of every movement.

“Never stop moving, that’s the way you defend…”

“Against a southpaw,” Luke finished softly, a soft smile on his lips. He remembered that day now; it was the afternoon just before Alejo’s first pro fight, a deal Luke had worked on for months as Alejo’s friend and manager. They were rookies, wet behind the ears when it came to the sport and business of professional fighting, but they were both young, adventurous and willing to risk everything – Luke a little more than Alejo.

“Get your guy home, Luke,” Jimmy said, “load up on the protein and carbs tonight, Alejo… and, Luke, make sure he’s in bed by eight… and no shenanigans.”

Luke watched as the two young men made their way to the locker room; long-suppressed memories crept back to his consciousness: he and his cousin, Shawn Harris, had met Alejo back in high-school – and when the two of them realized that Alejo, the tall, lean Latino, quiet, shy and unassuming could fight, it wasn’t long before they began to set up clandestine matches in the alley behind the billiard hall that Shawn’s dad owned. The money was good, at least enough to eventually buy a fourth-hand Dodge Galaxie which they shared on date nights, they loved that old car, Alejo even proposed to his then girlfriend, Valeria Espinosa, in it.

It was Shawn who recognized Alejo’s potential; Luke’s cousin was a true fan of the sweet science, he didn’t box himself, he’d always been a sickly child with a “condition” that the adults never fully explained to the confused, younger Luke, his cousin was his only friend. Shawn spent weeks in hospital, but he spent that time reading every book and magazine about the sport that he could get his hands on, by the time he did come home, he was something of an expert on it.

By their junior year, the three of them had made some tentative plans about Alejo possibly going pro with Shawn as manager and Luke as his handler, but Shawn’s mysterious childhood illness returned, and this time he didn’t come home. It was at his funeral that Luke promised he’d pursue Shawn’s dream for Alejo.

It was ironic now that he’d barely thought about Alejo Baquiran since his last unfortunate fight; he suddenly realized that he missed both his cousin and Alejo; young as they were back then, the three of them had trusted each other completely, they had each other’s backs. It was a shame things ended the way they did, but would they have been different if Shawn had been there? It didn’t take long for Luke to come up with an answer.

“Probably, buddy,” he murmured.

The boxer took hold of Luke’s arm again, the distant bell rang and the dark mist engulfed them once more.

At least, I’m not crashing headlong into a mirror, he thought.

When the mist cleared, he found himself outside Jimmy’s office at the back of the gym. The boxer released his arm and motioned for him to look through the room’s tiny window.

Luke and Jimmy were inside, and it was clear that some time had passed since that afternoon before Alejo Baquiran’s first fight; they were both a little older, Luke was wearing a suit, not the tie-dyed t-shirt and jeans he’d had on before, and the bald spot in the middle of Jimmy’s head had grown bigger. It was also clear that Jimmy was upset, very upset. He couldn’t make out their conversation at first, but soon the words became clearer.

“You don’t seem to understand, Luke, Alejo could have been hurt badly tonight, and I’m not talking about spending a night in the hospital just to make sure kind of hurt,” Jimmy said as he paced up and down the linoleum floor of the tiny room.

“But he wasn’t, Jimmy, and what I don’t understand is why you’re so upset. We won, didn’t we?”

“We won? If the ref hadn’t stopped the fight and disqualified Tamayo, Alejo would’ve lost… or worse.”

“Jimmy, this is boxing, injuries happen all the time; I know that, Alejo knows that – and you, of all people – should know that. The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward, remember?”

The old trainer sat on the battered chair behind the equally battered desk.

“There’s a big difference between risk and foolhardiness, Luke, and there’s an even bigger difference between reward… and greed. I told you what I thought about this fight from the start, but you took it, anyway. I can’t go on being your trainer if you won’t listen to what I have to say.”

“Are you threatening to quit on us, Jimmy?”

“I’m saying that as Alejo’s trainer, his safety is my first concern.”

“It’s mine, too.”

“Is it, Luke?”

“What do you mean?”

Jimmy Riordan ran his hands over what little hair he had left.

“I know about the little side bets you’ve been taking on Alejo’s last four fights. I understand that the prize money goes way down after taxes, but you’re playing a dangerous game.”

“We have bills and people to pay.”

“Does Alejo know?”

“He doesn’t need to know because I don’t want him to worry about anything else, all he needs to do is to concentrate on the fight. So, are you with us or not?”

“Are you going to listen to what I have to say about taking fights I don’t approve of?”

Luke nodded.

“And will you stop taking side bets?”

Again, Luke nodded.

“Do I have your word on that, Luke, as one Irishman to another?” Jimmy said, offering a hand.

Luke did not hesitate, he took Jimmy’s hand.

“You have my word.”

“I guess I’m still in, then.”

“Hmm, but you didn’t keep your word, did you, Luke?” Stephen was suddenly there beside him.

“I did what I thought was best for Alejo’s career, Jimmy was just holding us back.” He turned to Stephen, “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

Stephen smiled.

“Don’t worry, you will see very little of me from now on. You are going to like the next place you’re going to,” he said and vanished.

Luke extended his arm to the boxer.

“I’m all yours, buddy,” he said as he felt the now familiar coldness grip his wrist. The bell rang and the gym turned dark.

When the mist receded, Luke knew exactly when and where he was: it was the night of September 13, 2006, the night Alejo Baquiran was crowned the IBF World Middleweight champion, after knocking out Tyrone Lees in the eighth round, and this was the MGM Grand Arena in Las Vegas where the bout was held; well, not exactly the Arena, of course, it was already after the fight because he was back in his hotel suite, and a naked Caitlin was on top of him, bucking wildly cow-girl style. Rivulets of sweat coursed down her breasts as she rode him hard.

“You like that, Luke? Tell me you like it, baby,” she groaned as Luke’s hands roughly palmed her breasts over and over.

Caitlin reached for her ankles, she arced her body back as Luke’s hands moved down and grabbed her hips, holding her immobile as he lunged up and deep inside her.

One, two, three, four deep strokes and Caitlin started writhing as she climaxed. It took a while before she slumped forward, spent and gasping for air, her long blond tresses spilling over their still joined bodies. Luke eased himself out of her and moved, he grasped Caitlin’s shoulders and pushed her down on the king-sized bed. He straddled her thighs, bent down and looked into her green eyes, shaking his head at her questioning look.

Luke gave a small laugh then he placed his hands under her knees, parted them and lifted them over his shoulders one at a time.

“I thought we were… celebrating together… but you just can’t wait, can you, baby?” he said and thrust himself deep inside her.

A gasp was her only answer.

Luke watched the scene without saying a word. Caitlin may not have turned out to be his idea of a perfect wife… but she was always a good lay.

Suddenly a phone rang. Young Luke got off the bed and rummaged through the various pieces of clothing scattered on the floor.

“Do you have to answer that now, baby, can’t it wait till tomorrow?” Caitlin sat up, hair tousled. “It’s probably just the press wanting a victory statement.”

“It isn’t,” Luke said, finally locating his phone under Caitlin’s bra, “it’s business.”

Caitlin pouted as he stepped out into the adjoining lounge. He returned a few minutes later and started putting his clothes back on.

“Baby, where are you going?” Caitlin asked.

“I told you, it’s business, I have to go meet some people downstairs, it won’t take long, keep the bed warm,” he said, buttoning his shirt.

“That’s what you said last night and you came back at four in the morning.”

Luke zipped up his trousers, bent down and squeezed Caitlin’s chin hard.

“If you want a ring on your finger, then don’t keep tabs on me… baby. I have to work twice as hard, now that Alejo’s the champ. Everybody wants a crack at him and every time he wins, we all win.”

He kissed her roughly and left the suite. Caitlin lay back on the bed and buried her face in the pillows, crying.

Luke felt the boxer’s cold hand on his shoulder, he didn’t bother turning around, he knew what was coming.

This time, he could hear the music even before the darkness receded – and that voice would stand out anywhere – Anton Trankov was at the piano, singing, in Luke’s house, the house he’d gifted Caitlin on their fifth wedding anniversary.

It was, however, also a way to placate her, she had found out about Carmen Rivera and the cozy apartment he’d put the fiery Latina up in. Caitlin had threatened to leave and Luke did not want to have to deal with that on top of everything else, the timing was all wrong; sure, Alejo Baquiran was still middleweight champion, he’d defended his title six times in the four years he’d held the crown, but each succeeding fight had made less than the previous one, most of them ending between the third and sixth rounds, usually with Alejo’s opponent being counted out; Alejo had become a very good boxer – but he was also a boring boxer – people didn’t want to watch a fight the outcome of which was a foregone conclusion.

He had gotten rid of Jimmy Riordan two years prior, the old trainer had, again, become more vocal about Luke’s choices of opponents for Alejo; so, maybe a couple of them had viciously mauled the guy they’d faced in the ring and maybe one or two of them had had their licenses revoked in a few states, but this was boxing – the modern equivalent of gladiatorial games – the audience expected blood. He’d fired the next two trainers because they couldn’t improve Alejo’s footwork. Alejo was a boxer who’d fight toe-to-toe, until he or the other guy went down; he couldn’t “float like a butterfly,” but he certainly packed more than a sting in his left hand.

Alejo’s last title-defense had opened Luke’s eyes; the opponent was Billy Ray Dawson, who wasn’t even in the top twenty of any of the boxing bodies’ rankings, but had built up quite a reputation… for sending his opponents to the hospital after the fight; Billy had mauled one of them so bad, that the injuries the poor guy received had been career-ending.

The fight was the only one that had gone the distance, both their faces barely recognizable after the beating they inflicted on each other. Alejo still won on points, but had been subjected to the first standing eight-count of his career, he also spent the rest of the night in hospital as a precaution, but the press and the audience loved it – this was what they wanted to see a – blood-bath – two combatants not giving an inch! But what was more important, this was what drew the money in. That had set the wheels in Lucas O’Grady’s head turning, leading him and Alejo down a path neither of them ever thought they’d take.

Luke had set up a rematch between Alejo and Billy Ray; if the public wanted a Rocky II played out in real life – he was going to give it to them – the boxing world went wild, but Dawson, at the last minute, decided to hang up his gloves, it seemed his share of the previous prize money was more than enough to buy the dairy farm he and his wife had long dreamed about – a dairy farm! Luke found himself with a multi-million scheduled bout sans one fighter. It was then that Anton Trankov entered the picture, he was the manager of the most hated boxer at the time, Feodor Kolosov, aka the Butcher of Kursk.

Anton finished his little recital with a flourish and bowed his head as Luke and Caitlin politely clapped.

“Well, I certainly didn’t know “Those Were The Days” had been translated to Russian,” Luke observed as he handed Anton a drink.

“Ah, that’s where you are mistaken, my friend, the song is Russian that was given English lyrics, the original title is ‘Dorogoi dlinnoyu,’ which means ‘by the long road,'” Anton replied in perfect English, before taking a sip of his drink. “Hmm, very good scotch. So, shall we talk business, Luke, or are we waiting for your partner?”

“Jacob won’t be coming tonight, he has some medical appointment tomorrow.”

Anton’s eyebrows went up.

“I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Jacob and his wife, Andrea, have been trying to have a baby for some time, they’re seeing a specialist tomorrow,” Caitlin said, a small smile painted on her lips.

“Baby, go see what’s holding dinner up,” Luke said quietly.

It was clear Caitlin wasn’t happy at being dismissed, but she said nothing and left the room.

Anton held his glass up to the light then downed the rest of the scotch. “Perhaps it is for the best that Mr. Martelli isn’t here. I… had a feeling, the last time we all met together, that he does not entirely approve of our… arrangement.”

“Jacob is always uncomfortable with new arrangements, Anton,” Luke smiled, “don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

Anton nodded.

“So, is it, as you Americans say, a done deal?”

“Of course, my lawyer has drawn all the papers up, they just need our signatures.”

“Good. Send them to my hotel tomorrow.”

Luke picked up the bottle of scotch and refilled Anton’s glass.

“Shall we raise a toast to one of the biggest fights in boxing history?” he said, holding his glass up.

Anton did the same.

“Whether it is, remains to be seen, but it will certainly be one of the most profitable.”

Luke felt the cold fingers of the silent boxer around his wrist, a feeling of dread started in the pit of his stomach. He turned and looked at his faceless companion.

“No,” he mouthed, mutely, shaking his head. He closed his eyes as the bell rang and the darkness descended.

Sobbing!

He could hear sobbing – Luke opened his eyes. In front of him was Valeria Baquiran, Alejo’s wife, and his little girl, Mariel. They were in each other’s arms, kneeling – Valeria’s shoulders were shaking as she cried while her daughter, young as she was and with tears coursing down her cheeks, tried to soothe her.

About half-a-dozen people, including Jacob, were with the pair in the small room, all of them pale, an expression of helplessness on their faces. The door opened, Luke saw himself and he looked worse than the rest. He knelt by the two women and placed his arms around them.

“I’m so… so sorry, Val, the doctors did their absolute best, but nothing could have saved Alejo,” he whispered, “I’ll… take care of everything… everything, I promise.”

Valeria lifted her head.

“Gracias, Luke, gracias. Mariel and I wouldn’t know the first thing to do… you…” she broke down again.

“It’s all right, Val, you don’t have to say anything. Jacob, can you get them home?”

Jacob nodded and turned to one of the men with them.

“Bring a car around to the back of the hospital fast. I don’t want Val and Mariel eaten alive by the press waiting out in front.”

The man quickly left. Another of the men laid a hand on Valeria’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Baquiran, but rest assured, the board and I will look into this. Luke, I’ll see you at the office,” Edwin Torres, the boxing commissioner said.

“I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”

Luke watched as the commissioner the room. He stood up and helped Valeria to her feet.

“Val, you and Mariel go on with Jacob to the back and away from the vultures out in front. Mariel, promise me you’ll make sure your Mamá eats something when you get home.”

The young girl nodded.

“And here,” he reached into his pocket and handed her a bottle of pills, “one of the doctors gave these for your Mamá to take tonight, it’ll help her sleep. Give her just one, okay?”

Mariel kissed him on the cheek.

“Gracias, Tío Lucas.”

Then with her and Jacob’s arm around Valeria, they headed to the back of the hospital.

He looked around the now empty waiting-room and noticed Valeria’s hand-bag was still there. He could send it to her in the morning. He felt the burning in his eyes, he collapsed on the nearby couch and buried his face in his hands.

“Not this, not this, not this,” he said softly.

The chunks of plaster of paris that were concealed in Kolosov’s gloves would have brought any other fighter down by the third or fourth round – but he had forgotten Alejo’s will and determination – his friend had refused to buckle under the Butcher’s onslaught. By the sixth round, Luke knew Alejo was in trouble; his face was a bloodied mass of flesh and his body was turning red in several places where Kolosov had continually hit him. At one point in the round, Alejo fell and the crowd roared, all Luke could do was to silently beg his friend to stay down, but Alejo got up and the roar became even louder. He fell down again, but the referee deemed it a slip and the fight continued.

The bell rang for the seventh and Luke cursed his trainer – Jimmy would have thrown in the towel at the end of the fourth – then he realized the guy was new and totally inexperienced, and that was when he started running to the ring; he wasn’t in his usual front row seat, he’d given it up to one of Anton’s friends, he was standing at the back of the Garden; he pushed and elbowed several crazed fans out of the way as the crowd roared once more, the sound was deafening.

He’s down again!

Luke heard someone shout, but he couldn’t see, everyone was up on their feet now, shouting and screaming.

“Stay down, buddy!” he yelled as he got to the ring. He pushed his trainer out of the way, grabbed a bloody towel and threw it into the ring. The referee waved his arms and stepped in front of Alejo, who was on his knees; he turned to Luke, smiled grotesquely and fell forward. He never got up.

“I’ll take care of Val and Mariel, buddy, I promise, and I won’t let anyone forget you,” he whispered as he sat alone in the hospital waiting room.

“What did you do, Luke?”

Jimmy Riordan stood in front of him.

“I didn’t do anything, Jimmy, Kolosov’s a beast, he just tore into Alejo…”

“Don’t give me that. No one can hit that hard without cheating, Alejo’s head was swaying like a rag doll’s and I know the sound of a rigged glove.”

“You’re talking shit, Jimmy, and you know it. I’d never do that to Alejo.”

“You’d do anything… for the right price.”

Luke shook his head.

“Even if I did, there’s no way to prove it. It’s your word against mine. And who do you think they’d believe, Jimmy?”

“What happened to you, Luke?” the old trainer whispered as he turned and walked away just as a masked orderly entered the waiting room.

“Mr. Baquiran’s body is on the way to the morgue, sir,” he said softly, “do you know where it is?”

“I do and thanks,” Luke said. He picked up Valeria’s handbag and headed off to the hospital morgue. He didn’t see Mariel Baquiran standing by the waiting room door. She stood there for several moments before walking to the back of the hospital again.

Luke watched as the masked orderly pushed the waiting room chairs and couch back in place. It was only when he turned to leave, that he noticed the silver eyes above the mask.

The bell rang and the room fell into darkness.

 

Chapter 3 

Back in his darkened penthouse, Luke lurched to his living room bar and grabbed his favorite scotch. His trembling hand nearly dropped the bottle of vintage Laphroaig, though, and he wrapped his other hand around it, hugging the precious prize to his chest.

He did drop his favorite hand-cut Irish crystal glass, a one-of-a-kind Waterford prototype. It shattered on the gleaming marble floor. Too shocked from his experience to get properly angry, he instead opted to take a swig right from the bottle. A few expensive drops ran down his chin and soaked into his silk shirt, but he didn’t care. After the emotions of the past hour, it stank to high heaven anyway.

Still clutching the scotch, he sank into his plush leather chair, a gift from Caitlin in happier times, the chair he always sat in when he needed comfort. Taking another gulp, he leaned back, his eyes fluttering shut, letting the minutes tick by as his mind rationalized everything he had just seen. Those scenes were taken out of context, he told himself, and not fair at all. He was a good guy, the best – everyone told him so.

As the clock tolled the hour, he jerked upright. The bottle slipped away and hit the floor, sounding like an untuned bell at a back-alley fight. Like the Waterford glass, the bottle splintered. As the heady scent of the scotch filled the air, he swore.

“That’s no way to say hello to a guest,” an amused contralto voice said behind him.

Luke stood so suddenly that a wave of dizziness nearly knocked him back into the seat. This latest visitor had eyes so piercing that he felt somehow compelled to remain standing, and they bored right into Luke’s soul for what seemed like an eternity, establishing which of them was the dominant force.

Luke blinked and looked down.

Victorious, the spirit shook her head, and a mop of the most beautiful hair he had ever seen fell to the waist of her fitted green gown trimmed with platinum fur. It was all colors, he thought, dazzled – auburn, blond, chestnut, silver, raven’s wing, all jumbled together – and it was only the start.

Blinking again, Luke ran his eyes over the rest of spirit’s form, noting the swelling chest, the deliciously slender waist, the sculpted hips that flowed into the best legs he had ever personally witnessed. She reminded him of someone and he frowned, trying to remember.

“You’ll have plenty of time to figure things out,” the spirit assured him. “Now let’s go. In delay there lies no plenty. Shakespeare.”

“What’s your name, doll?” he asked automatically, flinching as he heard how disrespectful it sounded. He tensed, expecting a reprimand.

But she seemed unaffected rather than annoyed by the pet name. “My name? ‘Doll’ will do,” she said, her rich voice sounding uninterested in the question. “You mortals are too limited to pronounce my true name in any case.”

Luke didn’t like the tone of that, but before he could protest, the spirit grabbed his wrist. The world wobbled and the transitional misty darkness seemed to suck the breath from his lungs, but the next thing he knew, they had emerged into a rollicking costume party that had every sign of becoming an orgy within the hour, in his opinion.

He grinned, then licked his lips. Unlike that first ghost, this spirit understood him and his needs!

The trappings of this place screamed money, and plenty of it: The theatrical lighting and sophisticated sound systems; the constantly circulating air whisking away any smells of booze belches, body odors, and too-liberally applied cologne; and the tables with ice sculptures of vampires, monsters and reviled politicians scowling at the piles of finger foods and desserts at their feet.

The guests looked rich too, the men graceful and muscular, the women lithe and fit. No discount rags here; the bespoke capes and costumes draped flawlessly, the jewels sparkled as if lit from within, each mask seemingly an original work of art. Luke nodded approvingly, then squinted as he caught sight of a familiar figure clad in flowing scarlet and black. Was that Stephen in full Mephistophelean regalia? Luke saw a flash of glittering silver eyes before the crowd swirled, eclipsing the man. Luke’s fists clenched in frustration.

A movement caught his eye and he looked down to see a young woman gyrating to the house music, her full breasts jiggling so hard they threatened to break free of her skimpy satin halter. Her lush body curved in all the right places, and underneath her feathered mask, her ripe little mouth seemed made for his use. He licked his lips again, forgetting about Stephen. Luke extended his hand to the girl’s shoulder, wanting to draw her to him, but his hand passed right through her flesh. He drew it back to him as if burned.

“What the fuck?” he exclaimed, staring at his hand and then the girl, who shivered briefly but otherwise continued to shimmy as if nothing had happened.

“Sorry to disappoint you, doll,” and even with the loud music, he could hear the condescension in the syllable, “but none of these people can see you. Or me for that matter, more’s the pity.”

“Then what are we doing here?” he asked, eyes still on the jiggling dancer.

“We’re here to witness what happens at a real Halloween revel when you’re not around,” the spirit replied simply, and took his wrist once more. The scene winked out, and he squinched his eyes shut against the dark mist, wondering where they’d go next, but it turned out to be a short trip to the bar.

“Thank gawd O’Grady ain’t here,” a woman’s voice said just behind him. “That asshole sucks the life outta every room he’s in.”

Fists clenched, Luke whirled to confront her, but her companions laughed raucously.

“He acts like he’s the king of the castle, but he don’t know shit,” one of the men said with a knowing smirk.

Eyes widening as the realization hit him, Luke turned to the spirit.

“We’re at the Boxers Ball,” he said breathlessly.

The spirit swooped one finger along his jaw, then gently poked the end of his nose as if he were five. “Very good, doll! You’re smarter than you look.”

“This is my party,” he growled. “I started it, way back when.”

“When, exactly?” the spirit asked, affecting to glance around the room, her hair dancing around her sculpted torso as she did so.

“Right after the…” Luke’s voice trailed off, and he took a deep breath. “…the Baquiran fight.”

“Oh, that fight,” the spirit drawled. “You must have made a lot of money from that one to put on a show like this.”

“I did OK,” he said defensively. “The party was a good investment. Kind of a community builder. Brought people together outside the ring.”

“Oh, mortal man, is there anything you cannot be made to believe? Weishaupt,” the spirit replied obliquely.

“What th…” Luke started to say, but a voice distracted him.

“I heard Caitlin’s leaving him,” the woman said. He couldn’t place her because of her elaborate mask and gown, but the flat Jersey accent sounded a lot like one of his wife’s old friends.

“He deserves it,” another woman said, leaning in and dropping her volume slightly. “Everyone knows he cheats on her every chance he gets. I heard he got one of his fighter’s wives pregnant once.”

The spirit caught his glance and raised one eyebrow.

“It’s not cheating if you’re not gonna leave your wife,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

“Yeah,” one of the men said. “Carmen Rivera. She and my girl were best friends.”

A tremor passed through Luke. He hadn’t thought of Carmen in years.

“Carmen? Didn’t she…?”

“Yeah.” The man nodded. “Rented a car and drove way out to Camden. They found her inside it the next day. Keys in the ignition, empty gas tank.” A shudder ran down his spine and the man crossed himself. “Pobrecita. My girl blamed herself for months, saying if only she’d said or done something.”

The first woman laughed nervously. “It was suicide, wasn’t it?”

The man shrugged. “The cops said so, and nobody else wanted to ask too many questions. Pobrecita.”

He put his arm around the woman beside him, hugging her as if she were the most precious person in the world. Her gown shifted as she leaned against him, and her swelling abdomen became apparent.

The gaze the spirit turned on Luke was frigid as a between-rounds ice pack. Luke took an involuntary step back.

“The girl, she decided that on her own,” he explained, sweat prickling his armpits. “She didn’t talk to me about it. And I offered to pay for the abortion.”

“Your mother taught you better,” she spat, and even her green gown seemed to flare with anger.

“My mother was weak. She didn’t teach me nothing.” Even to himself, he sounded like a sullen little punk.

“Poor Catie,” the first woman said, and Luke suddenly placed that nasal accent. Barbie Bruno. He’d nailed her once at a party. She’d cried afterwards, and left immediately, brushing off her friends’ attempts to learn what had happened. Good riddance, he’d thought at the time – not much of a lay, and it had cleared the field for him to find a second victim that night.

“To think we all told Catie how lucky she was, landing the great Luke O’Grady,” the second woman was saying. “All us ring girls were so jealous!”

“Yeah, dodged a bullet, didn’t we?” Barbie said. “He’s nothing but a pool of dog vomit.” She leaned forward, and her purple lips curved into a malicious smile. “And bad in bed. Or so I hear.”

She dangled one finger, imitating a limp member, and her friends roared with appreciation, the sound bouncing off the walls. Around them, people turned to look, wanting to be in on the joke.

“Can’t we get out of here?” Luke asked.

“Oh, doll, to see ourselves as others see us,” the spirit quoted, twisting a lock of her strange multi-colored hair around one finger. “Burns. That’s from ‘To a Louse.’ Rather appropriate, I think.”

Luke gave her an imploring look. “Please?”

The unaccustomed word vibrated in the air like the toll of a bell, and the spirit looked at him with something like pity. She took his sleeve, and for once, he was glad of the transitional darkness swirling around him.

“What did you ever see in him?” a woman’s voice said in his ear. Luke found himself seated between his wife and a lovely older woman Luke couldn’t identify, and he bounded off the couch as if shot from a cannon. Nearby, the spirit sniggered, then looked around the room with interest.

“I thought he hung the moon,” Caitlin replied simply.

“I tried to warn you, Catie,” the older woman said, reaching over to pat Caitlin’s shoulder. Staring at her, Luke felt himself grow faint. It couldn’t be!

“I know you did,” Caitlin said, her voice soft, her mane of platinum hair sweeping the top of her companion’s hand. “But I was nineteen and thought I knew everything there was to know about life.”

Both women chuckled as Luke stared at them in horror. His wife – and his mother? In the same room? Talking about him?

From a young age, Luke O’Grady had learned to compartmentalize his various spheres of activities. Family went into one slot, work into another, mistresses into a third, deals into a fourth, and so on. Much easier on everyone – cleaner and tidier, he told himself, rationalizing as usual.

But even that system had little sub-slots, with everyone in their rightful places and seldom mixing or meeting unless Luke approved. After he and Caitlin had eloped following a fight in Vegas, his mother had unexpectedly flown out to meet them, one of the few times she had ever spent money on an extravagance like airfare. The two had sized each other up, his mother no doubt seeing a busty blonde with no brains to speak of, and his wife seeing at last the woman who had brought her husband into this world.

The women had circled each other like fighters in the ring, and he had laughed at the sight, drawing identical angry glances from the pair. His phone had rung just then, and he had left them to it while he cut yet another deal-within-a-deal behind the closed door of their bedroom.

He had returned to find a note on the table by the door. “Gone to lunch,” a note read in his wife’s loopy, rather childish, script. “Back around two. You’re not invited, darling, haha.”

Fuming, he had hurried out to find them, but a stunning brunette he had noticed at the bar the night before had distracted him. He’d spent a rewarding two hours in her suite before sauntering back to Caitlin and his mother.

One glance at him told both women what they needed to know. Hell, they could probably smell his latest conquest on him, but that was the price tag for their disloyalty.

They had shared a look Luke hadn’t understood, and his mother had quietly left. He hadn’t seen her since, and to the best of his knowledge, neither had Caitlin.

Until now. The ease of their posture together told him how incomplete his knowledge really was.

“We’re all idiots at that age,” his mother was saying. “I was, you were, our mothers were…”

“But I stayed an idiot way too long,” Caitlin cut in bitterly. “I didn’t want to know what was happening under my own nose. Not just the other women, either. All of it. The lies, the corruption, the bodies, the money laundering, the mob ties. All of it.”

“You couldn’t know,” the other woman soothed.

“He married me for my looks, Ginny,” Caitlin said. “I knew that. To him, I was just another bimbo. But I was smarter than I looked. And – and I loved him.”

“My son always underestimated women,” Ginny said. “Starting with me, and on for the rest of his life.”

Caitlin nodded. “Yeah. Thank God we never had kids. I was terrified we’d have a daughter.”

Luke’s mouth went dry as he turned to the watching spirit.

“She didn’t want my kids?” he squeaked, his neck hot with fury.

The spirit waved a hand, choking off his tirade.

“There are none so blind as those who will not see. Heywood. Now be quiet. This is interesting.”

“That’s an awful thing for a woman to realize,” Ginny was saying. “My dear, I’m so very sorry. About everything.”

Forcing a smile, Caitlin faced her mother-in-law. “You tried. You tried to warn me over that first lunch. But I was so sure the love of a good woman – that my love – could make him a good man.”

Dropping her gaze to the fringed leather carpet, Ginny sighed. “You know, he was a darling little boy. Absolutely angelic. ” Her eyes took on the faraway look mothers get when thinking about their children’s earliest years. “But something happened to him when he was about six. I still remember – it was the last day of school. I still don’t know exactly what – he kept his own counsel even back then. Nothing could make that boy talk if he didn’t want to.”

“Sounds familiar,” Caitlin said wryly, and Ginny gave her a brief smile of understanding.

“But I watched him that summer. He’d go off alone for hours, and when I’d peek in on him, he’d be lying there in his secret hiding place, staring up into space. Sometimes I’d see tears, sometimes not. But by the end of the summer, he wasn’t my sweet little boy anymore.”

The spirit shot him a questioning glance, and Luke’s face reddened.

“I ain’t thought of that in years.” Looking at the ceiling, he shook his head. “I didn’t know she was watching me.”

“What were you doing?” the spirit asked.

“Building a wall. Building a fucking fortress.”

“Why?”

“So no one could ever hurt me again. I was a little kid when I learned that people would push you around if you were soft. No way was I gonna be a target.”

A muscle in Luke’s jaw jumped, and his mother and wife would have recognized the look of determination. Luke and the spirit returned their attention to the scene in front of them.

Ginny turned back to Caitlin. “I would have loved a couple of grandkids, but maybe it’s for the best that you didn’t have kids.”

She broke down then, and Caitlin circled her in her arms.

“Maybe,” Ginny sniffed, “if you ever marry again, maybe I could be a bonus grandmother to your kids?”

Caitlin smiled, and all the magic Luke had once seen revealed itself once more. Only now, it no longer moved him.

“I never expect to marry again, but if I did have kids, I’d absolutely want you in their lives. I can’t imagine a better grandmother!”

The spirit looked down at Luke and cocked an eyebrow, but he continued to glower at his wife and mother and said nothing.

A few minutes later, Ginny wiped her eyes. “So here we sit while the Boxers Ball that you spent the entire last year organizing goes on. Don’t you want to go?”

Caitlin shook her head. “I have a video feed if I want to look in. But the Boxers Ball – well, it’s my past. I put my heart and soul into it, and I’m proud of what it’s become and the money it raises. Honestly, I’d rather stay home and plan a good future than think about the past.”

Ginny nodded and gave a little smile. “You always were a smart one, hon. What about that little girl, Thea? The daughter of your friends?”

“I’ll do my best for her,” Caitlin said. “She’s such a sweetheart, but it’s not looking so good.”

Incredulous, Luke turned to the spirit. “Thea Martelli? Catie’s been funneling money for that little brat? The family’s been faking that kid’s illness for years, trying to get money and sympathy and shit. Everyone knows the kid’s fi–.”

Darkness cut him off and Luke’s head ached with everything he had learned.

The quality of the darkness changed, and he found himself on a quiet street, trailing behind a couple with a thin little girl in a sheer white ghost costume. Each adult grasped one of the child’s hands, and even Luke could see the tension in their bodies, illuminated by the streetlights.

“Is that Jacob?” he asked. “And Andrea?”

The spirit made no answer, leaving him to figure it out for himself.

The child stumbled, and her parents anxiously stooped next to her.

“Are you all right, honey?” Jacob said. “Are you too tired?”

“It was just a little rough patch on the street,” the child insisted, waving her bag of candy. “I’m not tired, I’m not!”

After a quick glance at the smooth pavement around them, Andrea hugged the little girl to her. “You may not be tired, but I am.” She faked a yawn. “Three more houses, and we’re going home.”

“Aw, Mom, it’s too early to go home. All the other kids are staying out.”

Andrea stared thoughtfully at the pale little face barely visible through the white tulle. “We’ll see, alanna.”

By the third house, though, Thea had drooped noticeably. Her father scooped up his giggling ghost and placed her on his shoulders as if she were five, and the trio trooped home, talking about which houses had the best treats.

“Lazy kid,” Luke grumbled. “Leave it to a girl to figure out how to make a man do all the work.”

A cuckoo clock’s whistle sounded in the night, and the spirit jumped.

“Our revels now are ended,” the spirit quoted. “Shakespeare. Now, Luke O’Grady, have you learned anything from our little foray this evening?”

“Yeah. I need new friends and a different wife.”

“You, Luke O’Grady, are possibly the least self-aware mortal I have ever met,” the spirit said sadly, shaking her mane of magnificent hair, and Luke realized with a jolt who she reminded him of. Even her green gown matched his wife’s eyes exactly.

Caitlin. Always Caitlin.

Then he fell into a mist and knew nothing more.

 

Chapter 4 

Luke sat slumped in his leather chair. He glanced at the clock. In a few moments it would be a new day and all this would be over. The Ball in the evening would be a time to unwind.

The first note sounded. Luke picked up his drink and strode to the window, staring out over the city. He counted the chimes. Eleven. Twelve. He saw a motion in the reflection of the darkened room.

He turned. “The witching hour. It—” His voice froze in his throat as the specter slid near.

It moved toward him in a smooth glide that didn’t suggest a man walking. It was enveloped in the depths of a black silk robe. Not the black of midnight that might be broken by a star’s twinkle. This unnatural silk didn’t gleam with the lights of the City flowing through the wide windows of his bedroom. This was the absolute black of being locked in the tiny closet of a dark attic when he was a child.

The figure’s head was hidden in the deep hood. Luke was so used to bright trim on the hems, sash, and cuffs that it took a moment to register that this unrelieved darkness was a boxing robe. Nor did the figure it shrouded evoke the ring. It was thin, and the robe’s hem brushed the floor, denying him a glimpse of its legs. And yet, for all the slightness of figure, it exuded gloom and the menace of a heavyweight stalking an exhausted opponent.

Only one outstretched hand was visible. It was thin with arthritic knuckles and untended nails. The skin was dark and had a grayish cast that conveyed age. It pointed out his window toward the north.

“I guess that makes you the Ghost of Next Halloween?” said Luke.

The specter neither answered nor moved.

“Come on.” Luke kept his voice firm even though the apparition was creeping him out. “I saw the past and the present. That makes you the future, right?”

The hood moved slightly, as if the figure was nodding within its depths. The hand didn’t waver.

“All right! Jesus! Give me a second.”

At the oath, the figure’s head tipped as if it were studying him intently. That made it even worse for Luke. No matter how much he strained, he could see nothing in the depths of that cowl.

He stepped closer. A musty scent hit his nostrils, an earthy smell that evoked mushrooms or a mildewy, old cabin. “Let’s go,” he said before his courage failed. The figure’s other arm came up as if to embrace him. He shrank from it, but he felt nothing, only a swirl of blackness and then they were elsewhere.

It was a scene any person would recognize. A doctor and nurse stood talking in a hospital room.

“There was no chance, really,” the nurse said. “There was too much damage to the brain.”

“I know,” said the doctor. “I just hate it when they go on my shift. It’s a downer for the rest of the day.”

Ignoring the callous words, Luke moved to see around the curtain. Even though he couldn’t see the face, the bandages that covered it told Luke who it was. Davin Abascal. He’d taken a ferocious pounding in “All Tricks, No Treats.”

“You loaded him up on morphine, so the ending was pretty painless. That’s more than some of the people he hurt had.” The nurse’s tone was disdainful.

Luke knew Abascal was injured, but he had no idea it was this bad. He had plans for that young man: a return match because grudges thrilled the paying public. There’d have been a lot of money for everyone, including Abascal. It was about the show that brought the payoff, not about crippling people.

Luke turned to the specter.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said. “He was supposed to get bloodied up because you can’t have a madman like him go down easy, not after what he’s done to opponents. But Abascal didn’t follow the script. He kept hanging in there until this happened.”

The specter made no response. With a swirl, it drew him on to another scene.

The harsh glare of sun and palm trees told Luke where he was. Bal Harbor. He recognized two of the three figures on the park bench. They were an older couple who took care of things for a few of the snowbirds when they were up north.

“He was a bastard to work for, no question,” the woman said. Her face was twisted in a sneer so unlike her usual solicitous expression. “Treated us like dirt. Time we got our due.”

Her husband nodded and held out a small object to the other man. “This here’s the fob to the Lambo. I’ll miss ‘er. She were a sweet ride when he weren’t around, but cash be better.”

“Ouch,” Luke said to the spirit. “That’s like a quarter mil up to maybe a half if you’re talking about an Aventador. I like expensive cars and I’d probably get a Lamborghini someday, but I guess I won’t leave it down there if this is what happens when we’re not around.” He waved toward the couple. “I haven’t lost anything I know of, but still, I’m going to have to let those two go. I can’t have people who’ll stick a knife in your back working for me. I hope they’re not fucking over one of my friends.” He chuckled. “Though there are a couple guys down there I wouldn’t mind it happening to.”

The unknown man pocketed the car fob and paper, then handed over an envelope in return. It bulged in a way that suggested it contained quite a bit.

“It chaps my ass the way people take advantage,” Luke said as the robe flared black.

The quiet dim of the soaring nave was a sudden contrast to the bright sun of Florida. Luke followed the outstretched finger to see a woman kneeling forward, her hands folded in prayer. He recognized her, Baquiran’s daughter, Mariel. Her quiet words barely reached his ears.

“… a Lucas O’Grady. Amén.” There was a pause, and then a new cycle started. “Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo. Bendita tú …”

“She’s still praying for me? I don’t know what to say. She’s a good woman.”

The two, specter and human spirit, stood and watched the young woman for a moment, then blackness pulled Luke onward.

He knew this office. It was down the hall from his own. The two men in it were seniors in his battalion of minions.

“You know, it might just work,” the younger one said tentatively.

“It will. This company’s books show the money donated, and we have a record of the money being wired. The trust has a record of the money hitting the operating account. That it never reached the account for the trophy fund … well, who’s the person who moved that money?” The older man grinned. “Him, that’s who. And if it’s not replaced from the payouts before someone notices, who are they gonna ask?”

“Him,” they said in unison this time.

“But now, there’s a boatload of cash he was gonna use to set up that next fight.”

“I think five mil each in the Yours Truly Retirement Fund is a much better use.”

As their meaning sank in, Luke flew into a rage.

“You’re fired! And it doesn’t end there, assholes. Look over your shoulders because what happened to Abascal is nothing compared to what’s going to happen to you. You’re dead men walking and it won’t be quick!”

Neither of the men he addressed noticed Luke.

He turned to his guide. “I get the message. I’ve surrounded myself with thieves. Okay, I’ve crossed the line a few times, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. I get it. Mea culpa. So, take me home so that I can fix it. That fund was for something good. I won’t let those assholes do this.”

His underlings were still speaking.

“I kind of feel sorry for the young fighters. Those awards would have been something to shoot for.”

“Whatever. You know he’d have announced some big endowment to get everyone sucking up to him and his name in all the papers, then clawed half of it back in expenses and management fees. It’s the way he was. No, if someone wants to create that monument to his ego, then they can fund the O’Grady Awards themselves. Maybe Caitlin will want to. She can put the money back if she wants to protect his name.”

“Cailin! Yeah, like she has the money. Fuck them! I—” Luke was in mid-rant when the scene shifted.

They appeared in a hall filled with the press of bodies.

“That’s Judge Torres. He’s one of the commissioners,” Luke said. “Where are we?”

It took a moment for the setting to sink in: the quiet tones, the chairs lined up in neat rows. Finally, Luke turned and saw the arrangements of flowers at one end of the room. He caught the gleam through a gap in the crowd and recognized it: a coffin. The lid was closed. Abascal’s funeral. Perhaps a closed coffin was for the best; better to remember the face as it was before that fight.

He studied the display. Two vases of gladioli were probably provided by the funeral parlor. Carnation wreaths, the generic kind you got when you said, “Just send some flowers,” hung on tripods or had been leaned against furniture legs and walls. One of them was probably from his office. A striking array of lilies held pride of place by one end of the casket. More tokens than he thought a man like Abascal would have.

“Sullivan!” Luke said, as a figure moved in front of them. “What the fuck is he doing here? Never mind. Poaching like he always does, I’m sure.” He turned to survey the rest of the room.

There weren’t any civilians. No grieving aunts or nieces lined up to touch the coffin and whisper farewell. None, in fact, that were paying any attention to the front of the room. Clusters of men, the occasional woman, huddled in small enclaves of private business. He could hear snatches of the conversations. Each spoke of deals, of see and be seen.

“Are you going to the interment?”

“Hell no. I came because I needed to press the flesh a few times. Screw watching that asshole go into the ground.”

Abascal had been a brute, Luke thought. I dealt with him because he made everyone money. I didn’t like him.

“Yeah, I told Emiliano I don’t pad up my expenses like that,” Sullivan said from behind. “I also promised him a fair cut on the merchandising. I think we’ll land him.”

Emiliano! Luke whirled back in outrage, ready to tear into the rival who was trying to steal one of his up-and-coming fighters. “You fucking asshole! What—” He broke off as neither Sullivan nor the man he was talking to reacted.

“Where is this?” he demanded of the specter. “Or when? I need to know. I need to be here … there … wherever and whenever this is.”

The spector gestured toward the display of lilies. Luke could smell their sweet scent permeating the air. They were Caitlin’s favorite flower. A sense of unease stole over him.

“Did Caitlin send those?” he asked.

The specter pointed at the lilies. There was a card.

“She barely knew him.”

The specter pointed at the lilies and the card attached to them.

“What is Caitlin doing sending Abascal flowers?” Luke demanded, letting anger flood over the growing unease. “Show me!” The tone of voice was the one he used when speaking to some peon who didn’t understand who was in charge.

The specter’s head tilted, then its arm rose.

Luke realized this was a different time as well as place. The morning sky seen through the funeral hall windows had given way to fading light streaming in through larger windows. His lawyer, the personal one he trusted when he needed something done that wouldn’t bear the full light of day, faced his wife.

“David,” she said, “I’m not stupid no matter what opinion of me Luke has given you. I know damn well that there’s money stashed around, probably a lot of it in cash. I also know damn well that Abascal’s loss was the exact opposite of a disaster for Luke, which means there’s even more coming.”

His lawyer started to say something, to deny or reassure or dissuade. She didn’t let him.

“Don’t even start! As I said, I’m not stupid, and it’s not the first time. The final thing I know is that the prenup is moot now. You’re not the only lawyer, and I’ve been filled in on New York law regarding a spouse’s rights when there are no children.”

“Contesting a prenup can be quite difficult, Caitlin.”

“She’s leaving me?” Luke raged. “Yeah, good luck, Caitlin. David will eat you alive. That prenup will stand.” He didn’t expect her to react. He understood by now that these were just visions of the future.

“Yes,” she replied, “but if it succeeds, I get a ton. However, David, you have full power of attorney because of all the crap you did for him. So,” she said to the professionally blank face in front of her, “this is how I suggest it goes down.” She drew a piece of paper from her purse.

“This is the realtor’s estimate for the place here in New York and the place in Bal Harbor. I also documented our investments and what’s in the accounts I know about. It’s far less than I expected, which tells me something about what was coming my way.” The look she gave the attorney was not a friendly one.

Luke was beside himself at the transformation in the soft, easily led woman to whom he’d been married.

“Finally, I put a reasonable value on the production company. Dismantle it, run it yourself … hell, sell it to Sullivan.”

“What the fuck! Sullivan? You can’t—” He whirled to the specter. “She can’t—”

The spirit was facing him. Once again, Luke felt the stare from eyes he couldn’t see. They seemed to reach into the dim recesses of his memory and draw forth images in eidetic detail as if he were seeing them now. He saw hands in a hospital bed that were swollen and cut, but manicured underneath. The skin on them and around the eyes was fair, not honey-golden.

He saw who was at that funeral. People who wouldn’t have come for a fighter. They’d have sent condolences and penned op-eds bemoaning something or other. Caitlin didn’t even know Abascal.

He remembered the specter’s first gesture … north out the window of his Upper West Side apartment … and his mind’s eye re-created the nurse’s name tag: Columbia University Irving Medical Center. Abascal was taken to Mount Sinai Beth Israel, much closer to Madison Square Garden.

He felt the terror wash over him like a tsunami.

“Oh my God, no!” The specter’s head tipped in its regard. “Please tell me this is just a possible future, not something that’s certain.”

The specter pointed at the two talking and Luke tuned back in as Caitlin responded.

“… you buying me out for the total of these numbers. When you do that, everything else becomes yours, no questions asked. I’m betting that’s a number bigger than even a shark like you’s hourly rate. And David …”

Something in her tone was like a dry rattle coming from behind a rock in the desert. The man she was facing was not impulsive by nature and heard it. He waited.

“No questions asked includes no mention of the four or five other companies I’ve learned about over the years. The ones whose sole purpose, I assume, is to launder some of that money I never see … companies you set up and are a director for. Do they teach you about disbarment in law school?”

Words failed Luke as terror surged through him. All he could manage was a weak “When?”

Blackness overtook him. He wasn’t taken far. They stood on the sidewalk outside a small café just down from the building they’d left. Whether passers-by sensed something dark and unconsciously shied away, or the corner formed by a jut in the building caused their paths to flow around, none of those hurrying figures passed through the two spirits.

Luke’s eye caught the bright red dress Caitlin had been wearing in the attorney’s office. She turned into the café. Through the plate glass, he saw her approach a small table with a young man already seated with his back to them. As she drew near him, she laid a hand on his shoulder. The man leapt to his feet and the two exchanged a light kiss on the cheek as if they were well-known friends.

“Who …?” At his question, Luke and his guide flowed through the wall until they were standing beside the table.

“I was surprised you agreed to meet me,” the man said, “let alone the invitation to the party.”

“I was a married woman, Michael, and you made no secret of why you wanted to get together.”

Now Luke recognized the man. He had been a fighter managed by one of the men Luke was closest to. He had been good, not all-time great, but good enough he could have had his moment in the sun with a little judicious finessing. The same mechanism would have him quickly back out of the spotlight, but he’d have been a surreptitiously richer man when that happened. The trouble was, he hadn’t been a team player. He’d quit and become something boring and low paid. Luke couldn’t remember what … insurance? He’d been a waste of time and expense as far as Luke was concerned.

“And now?” the man asked.

“And now I’m not. What I am is a woman with money of her own, one who has always found you gorgeous.”

The man flushed at that.

“So, since you seem to find this old woman the same, maybe we should do something about it.”

“Oh my God, Caitlin! You’re not old.”

“I’m … well …” She gestured toward his glass of wine. “Let’s just say that, unlike you, I’ve been legally drinking for over a decade.”

“That’s nothing and you’re still a knockout. Being your partner would be a dream.”

Caitlin fell silent, studying her tablemate. Finally, she shook her head.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Michael. I have no intention of ever getting married again. Despite everything, I’m still someone who believes those vows mean something.” She gave a bitter laugh. “But you know what they got me. The saving grace was I realized soon enough to prevent being bound even more tightly.

“So, never again. No man is ever going to have a say in my life. And no matter how attractive and adorable you are, that includes you. I have money now, a lot of it, and I’m willing to spend it on you. Quit your job, fly around the world with me.”

The observers could see Michael process what was unsaid and arrive at a conclusion. The twist of his lips said it wasn’t one he liked.

“As basically a gigolo.”

She pursed her lips, then dipped her head. “If you want to put that label on it, then I won’t argue. If that’s unpalatable to you, then I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll understand. If you can forget the label and enjoy the lifestyle, I’m not Luke. I won’t trade for a new model every year.”

She gathered her purse and rose. She bent toward Michael. Luke knew that was no carelessness about her neckline. She’d done it to him in the early days, teased with a glimpse of the ring girl’s breasts that had been the first thing that had caught his eye, clad only in the semi-transparent lace that she favored.

“If Marc Antony appears next to Cleopatra at the Boxers Ball tonight, I’ll have my answer.” She gave Michael a light kiss, this time on the lips, then dropped her voice so that only he and the watching apparitions could hear. “I was at some of your weigh-ins. Egypt will be quite happy to be conquered by Rome afterward.”

Luke was fighting the fear, trying to guess how old Caitlin was so he’d have some clue as to when all this happened. That comment to Michael about her age … Why couldn’t she have been more specific?

At the same time, every fiber burned in a rage of jealousy. He was barely gone in this possible future—he had to believe it was only a possible one—and his wife was already inviting another man into her bed. A man, if he understood her words correctly, she’d fantasized about for some time.

The woman whom he’d married had disappeared somewhere. In her place was someone who had no hesitation in telling a man that she wanted to buy his youth: “I want a boy toy. Do you want the job?”

“She’s changed,” he said weakly. “She wasn’t like this.”

He looked at himself in the mirror on the café’s wall, and it was hard to face that he taught her that lesson. He’d given a young woman here or there a taste of the rich life in return for her panties dropping. In reality, hadn’t he done the same with Caitlin, just longer-term than some of those others? And Caitlin had found out and learned from the master.

“Spirit, how long do I have?”

There was no answer. Luke struggled to find some ray of hope in this whole thing, some point where he could start and work to avert this.

“Is there anyone in this world who feels anything other than greed about my death? Who isn’t stealing from me?” said Luke. “If there is, show me.”

The black robe flared out like a blanket, then withdrew to reveal an ordinary living room where a mother sat with two children. She was clearly waiting for someone, checking her watch frequently. Finally, a man Luke took to be her husband came in.

“Well,” she asked, “is it good or bad?”

“I couldn’t get to see him,” he answered.

She broke into a small cry, causing the children, who didn’t understand what their parents were talking about, to huddle closer in concern.

“But we’ll get through it, hon,” he said quickly.

“How? If he hasn’t changed his mind by this point, he won’t. And the interest will—”

“I couldn’t see him because he’s dead.”

The woman froze. Her husband sat beside her and pulled her into the curve of his arm.

“He wasn’t just avoiding my calls. He was in the hospital. Someone else will take over the note,” he said. “These kinds of people don’t forget. But it will take a while for it to be sorted. And by then we’ll have it. Your brother has promised …” His soft voice went on to describe how they’d manage.

Neither of them were the type to rejoice in another’s death, even that of a man they didn’t like. Luke could see the distress on their faces as they spoke of his passing, but it was a happier couple that went to the dinner table and two children whose unnamed fears were allayed.

Luke felt a tug of conscience. He knew who the man was, barely remembered what he owed. The motive for denying him an extension or a little forgiveness was to avoid setting precedent, not because the pittance would matter in Luke’s life.

Even a goodhearted sap like this found a silver lining of relief in death.

“Death’s just an opportunity for everyone, huh?” Luke said. “Especially my death. Doesn’t anyone I know have an ounce of decent feelings over the fact that someone is dying?”

The blank visage turned his way. Once again, Luke felt weighed. With a wide sweep of its arm, the specter conveyed him to one more scene.

It was another hospital. This bedside, however, was not unattended. Luke knew every person in the room, from the sobbing woman to the man sitting with bowed head, his face gray and lined.

The wan, still figure in the bed was Thea Martelli. She was ten years old. Or had been. Looking at the silent monitors, Luke knew the disease had finally claimed her.

The two adults were her parents, Andrea and Jacob, and Jacob had been his partner for many years. They’d parted bitterly. To this day, Luke did not understand why Jacob had been so dense.

“Quitting isn’t going to make her better, Jacob. Money’s your best bet, if anything can change things. Make a lot of it and throw it at the problem. Hire the best. Hell, hire ten of the best. There are more fortunes to be made here; we both know that, and you’ll feel like you did everything you could for her.”

What had been said that day couldn’t be unsaid. The disbelief on one side and the contempt on the other had escalated to harsher words. With final words of “You’re a monster” and “You’re a spineless fool to throw this away for what? A few more months, a year?” any hope of reconciliation fled and the men had parted.

In retrospect, Luke had declared he wouldn’t change that history even if he could. It left him free to be everything he could be and to reap all the rewards solo.

And yet … he remembered the first hospital bedside, vacant except for a contemptuous nurse and an indifferent doctor. Was there no one to mourn him? There wasn’t. There was no imprint of him on the world, save for contempt and ill will.

His employees saw his corpse as something to be plundered, whether on the small scale of a Lamborghini or the large of ten million dollars. Or even more because David knew where all the money was hidden, and Caitlin had given him carte blanche as long as she got her cut.

Some of those thefts would destroy his legacy. No charitable fund could survive most of its capital seemingly embezzled by its founder. Luke felt his blood begin to boil. He’d made those two into wealthy men—not on his scale, but still wealthy—and this was how they repaid him. The prizes that would have kept his name alive in the boxing world forever would now be just another scandal.

That hurt more than the actual theft. The thought that it would all go poof with his death was intolerable. The real legacy, a son to carry on both the name and business, that had been denied him. He knew he wasn’t sterile, but Caitlin had never gotten—

Her words to her prospective lover swam back: “I realized soon enough to prevent being bound even more tightly.”

Not didn’t get pregnant. She—

“No!” The shout did not disturb the grieving of the figures in the room. “She wouldn’t’ve done that.” Luke whirled toward his guide. “She knew how important it was to me.”

The apparition stared at him silently, if a dark void inside a hood could be said to stare. Rage and sorrow ripped through Luke in equal measure.

“So, I’m just supposed to accept that everything’s gone?” he spat. “The empire I’ve built stolen by thieves? My endowment for young boxers just a tabloid headline? Contempt every time someone mentions my name?” His eyes went to the grieving parents. “And no more chance to pass on a legacy than a muppet like Jacob there?”

The fire had died out by the last question. It was spoken in almost a whisper. Luke turned pleading eyes to the specter.

“I have to fix this. How much time … I mean, when is all this?”

The question was barely out of his mouth before he found himself in his office. He stood in front of the grand mahogany desk he had accepted in lieu of a debt owed him. The specter’s finger pointed to what lay on top.

His assistant had set the newspapers along with the latest issue of Boxing News neatly in the middle. The specter continued to point.

Luke found it hard to focus for fear. He reached for the top one and turned it to read, oblivious that this was the first time he’d been able to interact with his visions. It was the New York Daily News. He always liked to start his workday with the blaring front page they favored. It gave him a sense of the populist sentiment.

“King of the Ring Takes a Dive,” it screamed. The smaller sub-headline read, “Terrible party plummet leaves survival in doubt.”

“No!” The finger maintained its inexorable gesture, willing him to look more closely.

He forced himself to peer at the folio: October 31 a year away. But that was no relief. A year was a long time until it became a death sentence.

“Please, spirit,” he begged. “Surely you wouldn’t have shown me this if it was for nothing, right? I can fix all this. Just give me a chance!”

There was no response save the arm started to rise in a gesture Luke knew would carry them away again.

“No! We can’t leave it like this.” He caught at the arm with his free hand, attempting to stop its motion. It was cool to his touch, not the warmth of a human form, and too strong for him. Once again the musty smell of earth overwhelmed him. Only this time it didn’t evoke mushrooms or a damp cabin. It evoked the raw soil of an open grave.

“NO!” he bellowed. “I can change.”

Those words did what his futile grip had not, stopped the specter’s gesture. Luke pressed.

“I can change,” he repeated. “I can fix all this stuff. Y-you just have to give me some sign that this is just a warning!”

Though the specter said nothing, Luke sensed it waiting.