Free Fit to Die by Joan Boswell

house.”
    â€œThere’s the bell!” Stevie Pounder was too loud, as if thesounds coming though the radio and into his ears filled him up with noise. It beat Gunboat how something in New York City could fly through the air and into those skinny pieces of wire. He thought it almost sinful, but everyone else, everyone but Miss Doyle, was bunched about the boy, hanging on his every word.
    â€œWhat money?” Miss Doyle was asking. Gunboat didn’t like the interested look on her pretty face.
    â€œMy cut from the Dempsey fight.”
    Stevie squeaked again. “Dempsey rushed in with a right, but Firpo beat him to the punch! The champ is down on one knee!”
    â€œYou have a pretty swelled head, Les,” said Miss Doyle, those gold eyes narrowing. “The fight has barely started, and here you are collecting your winnings.”
    â€œNot this fight,” laughed Ketcheson. “The one before I got sent up, the one where Gunboat took a dive.”
    Whatever the boss was going to say, he couldn’t beat Miss Doyle to the punch. “That’s loopy,” she said, waving away the words with a flick of her bangled wrist. “Gunboat makes the finest martinis in the Thousand Islands and is as stand-up as they come. It’s not in his nature to take a dive.”
    The crowd around the radio lowered their noise to a dull roar to hear Stevie’s next report. “The champ is back on his feet, throwing like a crazy man, and Firpo is down!”
    â€œLester,” the boss said, “watch yourself.”
    Gunboat took the top off the silver bucket and saw the ice had melted into a solid block. He took the ice pick in his large, hard fist and splintered it with one short stab.
    â€œThe last thing I want to do is get Gunboat’s blood boiling,” Ketcheson said with a wink. “But we both know he took a fall. It was me that told him to.”
    The boss looked around to see who else had heard, but Stevie’s words had the suckers in a spell. “Firpo is up with a big swinging right and bam, he knocks the champ right out of the ring! Dempsey’s gone head over heels over the rope into front row!”
    â€œYou see, Miss Doyle, Pilgrim wasn’t crazy,” Ketcheson went on like he was teaching a pouty kid her ABCs. “If he laid down a bet against his own fighter, everyone would know the fix was in.”
    â€œYou don’t say,” she said, like she really wished he hadn’t said. She turned her back to the bar, and Gunboat saw the back of her dress dipped scandalously low beneath her shoulder blades, a fact he forced himself to ignore.
    â€œBut he wouldn’t go face-to-face with Gunboat, either. He had me do his dirty work there. I couldn’t bring myself to spit it out, not looking at those fists, why, they’re like hammers. I don’t mind telling you, my own hands shook when I gave Gunboat the marker and said it was a message from his boss. But Gunboat’s a gent. When he saw how much was riding against him, he just gave me one of those shrugs and handed the paper back like he was handing a mother cat a kitten.”
    â€œAh,” said Miss Doyle, “the plot thickens.” Gunboat had never heard her voice so small or so soft.
    â€œIt was my fault,” said the boss. He was looking at Miss Doyle, but talking to Gunboat. “We were flat broke, but if we made good against Dempsey, we’d be set. So I sold most of my stake to Pilgrim.” There was a slump in his shoulders that hit Gunboat like Dempsey’s right. “I wish to God I hadn’t, but he was the only one with that kind of cabbage.”
    â€œMy God,” young Stevie croaked, “the champ is back in the ring! The swells in the first row pushed him over the ropes!”
    â€œWhy didn’t you collect before, Les?” Miss Doyle’s voice was stronger now, Gunboat thought, like she had made her mind up about something. She had