Free Never Fuck Up: A Novel by Jens Lapidus Page A

about anything. Stefanovic had his poker face on. The entire time: ice cold.
    Mahmud responded: “No, who’s hottest?”
    “The Dutch guy, I put forty G’s on the Dutch guy. He’s got dynamite in his fists.”
    The audience was taut, like thousands of rubber bands ready to snap. The fight began.
    Mahmud wasn’t completely green. He watched fights on Eurosport sometimes. Regular sports didn’t interest him; he didn’t get anything out of it. But watching the fights on TV gave him an adrenaline rush.
    The Romanian had blinding technique, speed, timing, and footwork. Sick round kicks and jump kicks à la Bruce Lee. Punch sequences fast, like Keanu Reeves in
The Matrix
. World-class blocking. No doubt about it—Stefanovic was gonna lose his dough.
    The Romanian maintained the upper hand through the end of the first round.
    The music switched on: gangsta rap on max. The trainers dabbed the fighters’ faces. Rubbed Vaseline on them so the punches would slide off easier. A chick swung her cheeks diagonally across the ring. Held up a sign with the number 2 on it.
    The gong sounded. The fighters stepped back into the ring. Sized each other up for a few seconds. Then all hell broke loose. The Romanian continued to impress. Landed a perfect round kick to Fuentes’s head. The guy sank to his knees. The judge counted off.
    One, two.
    The audience roared.
    The Dutch man’s saliva: like a spider’s thread from his mouth down to the floor.
    Three, four.
    Mahmud’d seen a lot of fights in his life. But this—perfection.
    Five, six.
    Fuentes stood up. Slowly.
    The audience howled.
    A few seconds left of the second round. The punches echoed. The Romanian tried to get three punches in. The Dutch guy lowered his chin, raised both gloves in front of his face. Successful block.
    Mahmud glanced at Stefanovic. The Yugo’s face was rigid like a rock. No sign of panic about the forty G’s that were about to be flushed down the toilet.
    The third round began.
    Something’d happened. It was like the Romanian was kicking in slow motion. Looked tired. But Mahmud was watching from closer upthan most—the guy wasn’t even out of breath. This had to be rigged. Was that really possible? Massive advantage two minutes ago, and now it looked like he was the one who’d almost been down for the count. Someone ought to react.
    Slowly but surely, Fuentes took over the fight. Heavy punches, low kicks, and rapid kicks to the head. The Romanian fought like a girl. Retreated ringside at every advance. Waved his arms in front of his face without even touching the Dutch man on the nose.
    It was stupid. Felt like an American WWE fight. Fake.
    The rounds passed by one by one. The dudes in the ring grew more tired.
    Mahmud almost laughed. Even if it was a rigged fight, Stefanovic was gonna get rich—and his boss, R., would probably get even richer.
    The gong sounded. The fight was over. The Romanian was barely standing. The judge grabbed hold of their gloves.
    Raised Ernesto Fuentes’s arm.
    For the first time, Stefanovic turned to Mahmud. A smile barely flickered across his lips—but his eyes glowed like embers.
    “Okay, soon we’ll talk business. The next fight is going to be huge. I promise, they’re giants, he-men. It’s what everyone’s here to see. The audience is going to be in ecstasy. Deafening support for the Swedish guy. That’s when we’ll talk. When everyone’s attention is directed at the ring and no one can hear us. You follow?”
    Mahmud followed. Soon, he’d get his chance. If only the Gürhan fag knew. Mahmud was about to cut a deal with the Yugos.
    A half hour later: it was time again. Mahmud was in his seat, waiting. During the intermission, he’d walked around. Said hi to people he knew, buzzed with the guys from the gym. People were happy to see him out. “Welcome back, Twiggy. Now it’s time to get cracking and bulk up again.” They were right—the slammer was no place to work out. It should be perfect: lots of time,