Free Blood Game by Ed Gorman

depot, all the taxis were taken up as well as the ten buggies the city had provided for the occasion. The latter were reserved for the gentry, the men who wore three-piece suits and derbies despite the heat, the ladies in lace and contempt. These people were dispatched to the small city’s two best hotels, where they immediately proceeded to ruin the days of bellhops, desk clerks, serving maids, and other guests.
    Even most of the people who claimed disinterest in the fight had to admit that the town had never seen anything like this. It was as if the place had been set upon by vandals. Every square inch of ground, it seemed, was being stood upon, sat upon, or claimed for later by somebody who’d come here to watch Victor Sovich. In three taverns downtown there were large photographs of Sovich behind the bar. As a joke, one man from Chicago got behind the bar and lighted a candle to Sovich, the way Catholics light candles to honor statues of saints. The prank got five solid minutes of applause from the crowd and free drinks from the bartender, who considered the man a real crowd pleaser and therefore good for business.
    In the city park an additional contingent of churchwomen had gathered to decry fisticuffs in any form, but especially the form in which it was done for money.
    Two more people got arrested, one for being with another man’s wife, and the second for drunkenly believing he was Victor Sovich. For no reason anybody could understand, the man simply began punching his friend until said friend was unconscious and perhaps dead. He’d taken a bad, twisting fall, striking his head on the curbing on his way down.
    It was not yet nine A.M.
    Guild said, “I’m not sure yet.”
    He was having breakfast in the hotel restaurant with Clarise. She had just asked him where he would go when the fight was over. “How about you? Where are you going?”
    She smiled. “I’m not sure yet, either.”
    â€œWe’re quite a pair.”
    The waiter came. He was sweaty and angry, his hair plastered in wet ringlets to his skull. It was hot in here. Management didn’t want to open the windows because the black flies would get in.
    â€œYou’re having a bad time of it, I take it,” Guild said.
    The waiter, who was probably close to Guild’s age, said, “They kept warning us about the fight and how the crowd would be and all. I thought they were exaggerating.”
    â€œThey weren’t, huh?”
    â€œMost of these people are drunk already.”
    Clarise looked around. “You know, Leo, I think he’s right.”
    The waiter poured them more coffee. Its stream looked red in the morning sunlight.
    â€œWell, by the end of the day, it’ll be all over with.”
    â€œYes,” the waiter said with a certain theatrical flourish, “or I will be.”
    â€œStoddard’s going to make a lot of money,” Clarise said.
    â€œStoddard and Sovich. I don’t think Stoddard will be dumb enough to cheat him this time. I think Sovich would kill him if he tried.”
    Her small, beautiful mouth wrinkled into a frown. “As long as Rooney doesn’t make anything.”
    â€œHe gets so much per round. That’s how these things work. If he can stay on his feet ten rounds he can make himself some nice money.”
    â€œMaybe he’ll get killed.”
    Guild sighed and looked out at the room filled with stout men in suits and thick mustaches, at women in chenille dresses, at curtains that looked like golden waterfalls with sunlight blasting through them.
    Guild said, “You’ve got to forget about Rooney.”
    â€œThat isn’t very easy.”
    â€œI’m not sure you’d want to see him get killed, anyway.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause there’s a difference between wanting somebody dead and actually seeing them dead. No matter how much you hate them, you always start to feel a little sorry for