The Sound of the Bell

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.

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...?"