Chapter 5 - The Red Door
The rain turned to sleet by midnight, slicking the industrial alleyways of the harbor district. Frank pulled his wool collar high against the bitter wind as he navigated the maze of derelict warehouses. The salt tang of the harbor hung thick in the air, masking the stench of rotting timber and chemical runoff.
He stopped in front of a windowless brick building marked only by a heavy metal door painted deep, peeling crimson. Beside the jamb hung a rusted iron ring. Frank gripped the ring and struck it against the door three times, paused, then struck it once more.
A sliding peephole opened at eye level. A pair of jaundiced, suspicious eyes stared out through the narrow slit.
""Name,"" a gravelly voice demanded.
""The Hammer,"" Frank replied, uttering the ring moniker he hadn't spoken in over a decade.
The peephole slammed shut. Three heavy deadbolts slid back, screeching in their tracks, and the red door swung inward.
Inside, the warm, thick air hit Frank like a physical blow. It smelled of cheap cigars, menthol liniment, frying oil, and stale beer. The basement opened up into a cavernous, subterranean amphitheater. In the center sat not a standard ring or a clean octagon, but a sunken circular pit bounded by raw timber posts wrapped in barbed wire.
Two men were currently in the pit, circling each other with bare knuckles, their skin glistening with sweat and oil. Around them, fifty spectators—dockworkers, loan sharks, offshore bookies, and well-dressed men with cocaine-flushed faces—banged on the railing, waving crumpled stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
""Look what washed ashore,"" a voice purred from the shadows near the stairs.
A stocky man with slicked-back gray hair and a purple silk suit stepped into the light. Hector Vance. Twenty years ago, Hector was Frank’s first promoter; ten years ago, he was banned from sanctioned combat sports in three states for fight-fixing and running unregulated betting pools.
""Hector,"" Frank said, keeping his hands in his coat pockets.
""You look old, Frankie,"" Hector said with an unpleasant grin, displaying gold-capped canines. ""A little thick around the waist. But you still carry that walk. The walk of a man who knows how to put people to sleep.""
""You said you had an angle on Apex.""
""Apex is ruthless, Frankie. They run the legitimate cards on cable television, but Viktor? Viktor launders the syndication money right down here in my pit. Every big Apex prospect takes a few 'private' bouts before their televised debuts. It inflates their underground record, brings in massive side-action.""
Frank’s eyes narrowed. ""Marcus.""
""Bingo,"" Hector chuckled, lighting a thin panatela. ""Marcus is fighting here Friday night. Unsanctioned. Bare-knuckle with tape. Apex arranged a showcase against an imported Russian slugger to build his myth. The purse for the main event is two hundred and fifty thousand. Winner take all, plus whatever side-bets the pit can hold.""
Frank felt the cold draft from the doorway settle in his lungs. ""And if the Russian can't fight?""
Hector stopped flicking his gold lighter. The flame froze inches from his cigar. He leaned in, his eyes gleaming with greedy anticipation.
""Are you telling me the legendary Frank Miller wants to step back into the dirt for one night?"" Hector whispered. ""A teacher versus his treasonous student? Frankie... the bookmakers would lose their minds. The pot would cross four hundred thousand before the first bell.""
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Hector reached into his inner pocket and slapped a battered leather-bound ledger against Frank’s chest.
""Sign the waiver, Frank. You either pay off your building on Saturday morning, or you leave this pit in a wooden box.""
