The Hammer Falls Read online

  Trask’s voice came over the speakers, unusually deep and resonant. “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!”

  Deep bass throbbing filled the air, building anticipation. He smiled as the pulse of “Thunderstruck” filled the air, but not the newer commissioned version—the old-school rock-n-roll version from his Grandpa’s time. The change in tune caught the crowd’s attention.

  “Our special guest, a true legend of the pit, a fighter whose records will stand for ages to come!”

  The crowd hushed, and the music intensified. They raised their faces in curiosity, smiles of wonder began to spread, expectation. Could it really be him?

  “Fresh from his spectacular comeback victory in Fury Dome XXIV!”

  Recognition and hope burgeoned in the sea of faces with their eyes glued on the curtain behind which Horace awaited his cue.

  “Yes, that’s right, you know who I’m talking about! Hor-ussss the Ham-Murrr Haaaark-ness!”

  The cannon pounded the air again in synchrony with his theme song.

  Horace thrust the curtain aside and stepped onto the ramp. The crowd roared in delight. Standing there overlooking them from the two-meter-high ramp, he raised his arms and shook his clenched fists to the sky. The crowd went berserk, jumping and cheering, arms raised in Thunder Hammers.

  His throat clenched again and his eyes teared up. If this was to be his swan song, let it be a good one. He answered their Thunder Hammers with his own and roared at the sky with all the ferocity he could muster. Whorls of neon tattoos blazed over his arms and face.

  The media drone zoomed nearer, floating eight meters over the heads of the crowd. A throng of net-shades fixed upon him, registering his identity and feeding it out into the vastness of cyberspace.

  For almost a minute, he fed the crowd his ferocity and grandeur and drank their accolades by the gulp. Then he strode like a Goliath toward the pavement. He went to the barriers and touched hands with as many fans as he could manage, and the expressions of awe and excitement on the faces of even the youngest filled him with the kind of warmth he could get nowhere else. God, he loved this. When he had greeted everyone he could reach, Tina caught up with him with a stack of holo-prints, and they took up a position at the last of the line of tables.

  Throughout the next hour, he signed scores of autographs but made sure to extol the virtues of the other fighters in Trask’s stable. Going down the line to each of them, he posed for photos and video shots with the other fighters.

  Even Lex, with the bruising on his face all but healed, grinned broadly and shook Horace’s hand for the cameras. Lex’s grip was too fierce, but Horace let him have this little attempt to reclaim his pride. Something told him he wouldn’t have any more trouble from Lex as long as Jocie stayed the hell away from him. Together they mugged it longer than anybody, and the crowd devoured it. Lex Lethal, as the most established fighter in Trask’s stable, already had a sizable contingent of his own fans.

  For these minor-stable, unknown fighters, Horace’s presence lent credibility and prestige, a connection with tradition and success, and as the photos circulated worldwide over the next day or two, their media and social recognition ratings would receive a substantial boost. Trask had been a genius setting this up.

  He spotted a sparkling silver sports car as it slid into the parking lot, making every other vehicle in the parking lot look like an antique wreck; the newcomer was a leopard among swine. The car did not park; it simply stopped, and a man got out, smoothed his bright purple hair, straightened his silver-gray suit, adjusted his cuffs, his gleaming platinum watch. Another man got out of the car, the bodyguard, dressed in a dark suit, shades, wearing a fiercely pointed goatee.

  The scent of mobster emanated from the man, wafted across the distance, but this was no hitman. Hitters were steadfastly nondescript. Here was a peacock in his prime, out to make himself seen. The crowd parted for him magically, as for a shark swimming through a school of fish.

  The gangster’s presence put Horace on instant alert. He started looking for directions to run—or pathways to attack.

  When Trask intercepted the man with a big grin and open arms, Horace relaxed slightly. The man returned Trask’s embrace with a cool smile. Trask led him through the crowd, behind the tables, and straight toward Horace.

  “Vince, meet The Hammer,” Trask said, “Hammer, this is Vincent.”

  Horace extended a hand and Vincent offered his, slim and tan and encrusted with jewels embedded into his skin glinting in the spotlights.

  “A pleasure,” Vincent said with a smooth nod and a New Jersey accent.

  Trask turned to the crowd. “Sorry, everyone! The Hammer needs a break! But he’ll be back in a just a few minutes!” He took both of them by the arm. “Let’s go have a drink, boys.”

  In Trask’s office, Horace and Vincent seated themselves comfortably while Trask poured three glasses of amber liquid from a decanter, brandy this time, into three teardrop-shaped snifters. Trask pulled his chair from behind his desk and sat with them in a loose circle, striking a posture of relaxed nonchalance. Vincent’s bodyguard stood in one corner of the room like a grim, silent statue.

  Trask said, “Vincent here’s a fan, Hammer.”

  “I always like to meet my fans,” Horace said, never taking his eyes off Vincent.

  Vincent leaned back and sipped his brandy, a glint in his eye. “Used to watch you all the time when I was a kid.”

  Horace smiled. “Thanks.” Hearing it over and over again was making him feel old. “I always try to put on a good show.”

  “You did, my friend, you did,” Vincent said.

  Trask jumped in. “Vincent here loves the fights. He’s a...a great patron of talent.”

  Vincent looked at his perfectly manicured nails. “I enjoy it a lot, it’s no lie. But it’s the helping people I like the most, you know? I like to help fighters. I make it my business.”

  Horace nodded. Players like this had been around since the sport had gone national, ever since the days of nonlethal mixed martial arts, since the days of boxing, since the days of bare-knuckled backlot free-for-alls. Cultivating favors, fudging odds.

  It was hardly surprising that Trask had a relationship with a guy like this. The question wasn’t whether Vincent was connected, but to whom he was connected. In fact, it would be no surprise if Trask had such relationships all over the country. Horace struggled with the impulse to say, Get me on a hyperjet to Vegas tonight and I’ll do anything you want. But some deeper instinct told him that would be an utterly futile gesture.

  In the dim light, Vincent’s suit sparkled with thousands of tiny, subtle lights. His gaze was a cool blue, fixed upon Horace for several long moments as he sipped his brandy. “You play poker, Hammer?”

  “I have, but never made much of a study at it.”

  “I play quite a bit. I’m pretty good at it. To be a good poker player, you have to be good at reading people. You been around a while, Hammer. A fighter doesn’t get to where you been without seeing a few things, without knowing a few people, without getting on the wrong side of the wrong kinda people, you know what I mean? Ol’ Norm here, he knows I like fighters. He knows I been a fan of yours a long time. So when he invited me here to meet you, there wasn’t any question. So I’m sitting here looking at this fighter, this fucking legend, and I’m thinking to myself, all he sees is another one of those guys he’s seen a hundred times before. Hell, he’s seen everything under the sun, am I right? Am I right?”

  “You’re not wrong,” Horace said, taking a slow sip, wishing this guy would get to the point.

  “I’m sitting here looking at this legend and he’s fresh off a big win, but somehow that’s not registering, like he’s got bigger problems. It’s written all over his mug, like a tattoo on his forehead. Like what the hell is he doing with Norman Trask? No offense, Norm, but you’re not the major leagues.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Trask said, lighting a fat, black cigar with a little blowtorch.<
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  Vincent went on, “I’m a guy who likes to help people. I consider it my civic duty. Sometimes, even legends need a little help. Sometimes, the legend gets a little tarnished, you know?” He breathed fog onto his brandy snifter. “Needs a little polish.” He rubbed the fog off with his cuff. “Just a little polish. Just a little. So I put my ear to the grapevine just now and listen, and some wild, crazy shit comes through.”

  “And what have you heard?” Horace gave him a long appraisal, looking for evidence of any wetware. If he had implants, they weren’t visible like Bunny’s.

  “That you have a strong dislike for vodka.”

  “Again, you’re not wrong.”

  “See, already we got so much in common, Hammer! I hate vodka, too! But it’s fucking everywhere, soaked into every goddamn thing. Most of the time, people are chugging the stuff, and they got no fucking idea. Vodka and fucking borscht everywhere. Capisce?”

  “I’m with you, brother.”

  “Too much alcohol makes it hard to do business, right? Hard to do your job. It just gets in the fucking way. Drink too much and you’re like the cute little girls on spring break, chugging the stuff like it’s water, and it makes them do stuff that would make their mothers commit suicide. I think we need to sober up. Get straight. Make a little room for other kinds of business.”

  His gaze leveled into Horace’s again for a long moment.

  Then he smiled, “A toast, gentlemen. A toast to new friendships!”

  They all leaned forward and clinked glasses, took a sip. But somehow Horace still didn’t feel friendly.

  Vincent said, “I’d hate to see a legend just disappear into the vodka, you know? Get pickled. That would be a shame, such a shame.”

  “I hear it’s possible to drown in vino, too,” Horace said.

  Vincent chuckled. “Sure it is, but it’s less harsh, you know. Wine is good for you with a nice meal. Vodka just burns and makes you stupid.” He sucked something from his teeth. “How long you boys gonna be in Buffalo? We should do a night on the town! I can show you around, get us some girls lined up. It ain’t Atlantic City, but Buffalo’s got a lot going for it, you know?”

  Trask said, “That would be a smash, Vince, but we’re on the road to Albany tonight after this gig. Fight night in two days.”

  “Come on, Albany ain’t the other end of the fucking world! You guys come with me tonight, after your thing here is all wrapped up. Have a little ziti, a steak, some vino—in moderation!—what do you say? A little hospitality never hurt anybody.”

  Vincent did have a certain easy charm about him. Horace had encountered mobsters at a number of levels, from dull-witted thugs to captains to the made men, but few of them possessed this guy’s good looks and genuine smile. His voice carried a bit of real excitement, a real sense of wanting to show The Hammer a night on the town, not just adding a node to the network of favors and obligation that all mobsters traded in if they wanted to live to a well-seasoned age.

  “By the way, Norm,” Vincent said, “you still got that fine little thing working for you, that little rainbow girl?”

  “Sure do,” Trask said.

  “I like her. Bring her along.”

  “Nah,” Horace said, “she stays here.”

  Vincent’s smile faltered. “And why’s that?”

  “I could use some action. The kid would be a total cock block.”

  Vincent took a slow sip. The smile didn’t come back.

  Horace said, “If you’re trying to get in her pants, I don’t blame you; but let’s leave her out of the men’s discussion.” The Italian mob was still an Old Boys’ Club. “There might be more to talk about...vodka and such.”

  Vincent nodded at that, bared his perfect set of teeth into that brilliant smile again. “Fair enough. You’re The Hammer, after all.”

  Horace rejoined the festivities after Vincent’s flashy departure. As soon as he set foot outside again, another wave of applause erupted from the crowd.

  Demonstrations commenced. Several of the fighters showed off their deadliest weapon techniques on human-shaped dummies. Vibro-blades and spiked gauntlets ravaged the dummies, sent limbs and heads flying. The fighters even offered fans a chance to try their own hand with the pit fighters’ actual weapons—for a premium fee, of course. The fighters made it look easy, and the fans made it look difficult, but they puffed up and glowed with glee at the chance to actually wield a vibro-axe. Horace was always relieved after such demonstrations when the fans thankfully failed to sever their own limbs. Vibro-weapons were some of the deadliest hand-to-hand weapons ever made, with edges that vibrated like reciprocating carving knives. They could slice to the bone with just a touch. He thought about that electro-fiber blade he’d used to kill Dmitri. Those could take the bone, too.

  After an hour, another drone appeared in the air directly above, similar to the first, with the other media drones swooping and hovering.

  For two hours, they all pressed the fan-flesh. They laughed and smiled and hugged and high-fived, and as the word must have gotten out about The Hammer’s appearance, the size of the crowd ballooned for a while. A van from a local media hub came and interviewed Horace and Trask.

  Of course, everyone wanted to know when The Hammer’s next fight was, but all he could do was politely demur with vagaries and bravado, which, of course, resulted in a fresh burst of autograph signings at three hundred dollars a pop. Fistfuls of cash and coin changed hands.

  It all felt like the Big Time again, the height of his career. He was The Star, however fleeting he knew it to be.

  After three hours, when the last of the fans, even the latecomers, had been juiced by their contact with celebrity and sent away clutching their prizes, and the models paid and whisked away in their battered hover-limousine, the fighters stood alone amid the carpet of food wrappers and discarded flyers.

  Trask approached Horace, grinning so wide his back teeth gleamed. “What a show! What a goddamn show! I think you can safely call the hospital bill square.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. It felt pretty goddamn good.”

  “Excellent!” Trask clapped him on the back.

  By this time, Horace’s tattoos had faded to black and the familiar fatigue had crept back in.

  Trask circulated among the other fighters, clapping them on the back for a successful show.

  Dressed in a corseted scarlet dress, Jocie hugged Lex’s arm with big smiles and ignored Horace completely.

  A cooler of beer appeared on one of the tables, and bottles spread round the group with clinks and fizzing.

  Outside Trask stood up on one of the chairs, cigar in one hand, beer bottle in the other. “My beautiful, bastardly badasses! Congrats on a great pull. We’re going to ride the buzz from this all the way to Albany. Once we get there, we’ll have a light training day, another show like this one tomorrow evening, and then the night after this, the fight night itself. I expect every one of you will leave your opponents in a bleeding pile. Am I right?”

  The fighters cheered and raised their drinks.

  “So live it up tonight,” Trask said. “Tomorrow is training. And I have it on good authority that some of those models are coming back later to ride with us to Albany.”

  Growls and laughter of lascivious anticipation sounded among the fighters.

  “Mad Killer” Kevin Michael raised his bottle, “To Mr. Trask! The best boss in the fucking world!”

  Hoots of agreement rose with more beer bottles.

  Trask grinned and took a bow.

  Horace’s netlink chimed with an incoming call. Jack McTierney’s leathery mug appeared on the screen. Horace’s heart skipped a few beats and he headed through the door into the train, stepping out of easy earshot. He answered the call, “Jack.”

  “Goddamn, Hammer, you got balls like a fucking elephant,” Jack said. “You’re all over the net!”

  “That’s the plan, brother.”

  “Or you’re crazier than a shit-house rat.”

&nbs
p; “Listen, you got anything on Lilly? That video—”

  “I saw that video. Scary shit. Look, I’ve been doing a little scratching around in the dirt. That Russian, Dmitri. He’s got—had—four different aliases. And do you really want to know where I found a couple of those other names?”

  “I think you’d better tell me anyway.”

  “Boards of directors. I’ll send you a file with the names. Six megacorps that I found so far. This is scary, beyond-the-law-and-common-decency stuff, amigo. These guys have their fingers in every goddamn thing. Maybe even Regenecorp. I’m still trying to verify that one.”

  Horace wasn’t surprised. The Russian mob had been extorting professional athletes for a hundred years. How much extra money could they make if they could fudge the odds on some poor sod’s Resurrection Watch? Too bad, poor Johnny Pit-Fighter’s resurrection didn’t take.

  Jack lit a cigarette and took a drag. “A couple of these corps look like fronts for some very nasty shit. Shipments to and from the anuses of the Earth, the kind of places where the only currency is weapons, slaves, and pirated tech.”

  “I didn’t know these Russians were that big—”

  “You got no idea!” Jack’s normally low, calm voice went a little shrill. “Do I gotta remind you the megacorps have their own sets of laws? We’re talking asteroid mining, fissionables—”

  “What’s that?”

  “Fissionables. Plutonium, enriched uranium. All those old nuclear missiles that rotted in the silos and had to be decommissioned. All of that decommissioning was handled by private contractors. And our boy’s on the list.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Just down the hallway, Bunny appeared and leaned against the doorway, watching the festivities outside, arms crossed, a bemused smile on her face.

  Horace said, “I suppose it’s stupid to ask if any of this can be taken to the police or the FBI.”