3:00 p.m. sharp.
The TV in the living room flashed the latest update from the U.S. Boxing Association: the official national-team roster.
Heavyweight division: Anthony Flag, New York regional champ, three wins in the last six months.
Victor's pager went off like a fire alarm.
Max killed both their pagers and tossed them onto the bed.
"Told you."
Victor stared at the computer screen, a weird calm settling over him. "They didn't even bother with a decent excuse."
Max grinned wide. "Now the whole world sees what clowns they are."
Suddenly the brick phone rang; pagers were public, but the cell was private.
Max picked up, listened for two seconds, said "Watch the wording," and hung up.
"ESPN. They're running a piece tomorrow: 'Why the Golden Gloves Champ Got Snubbed for the National Team.'"
He looked out the window. "Your name's about to blow up, kid."
Victor didn't say anything. End of March was coming fast, and the better the agent, the less they wanted to let go.
Max clapped him on the shoulder. "Save it for after the banquet tonight."
···
The Hilton ballroom glowed like molten gold under the chandeliers.
Light danced along the rim of Victor's wine glass while he stared at the shifting reflections and mechanically knocked back another mouthful of red. The oak-barrel bite did nothing to loosen the knot in his chest.
"Third glass," Max muttered, poking the back of Victor's hand with a fork. "With your tolerance? You'll be on the floor by morning."
Victor shot her a look.
She rolled her eyes. "Fine, you'll still be standing; just won't be you doing the standing."
Victor tugged at the rented tux's choke-hold tie. The superpower that let him soak up alcohol like a sponge also meant he sobered up fast, so he'd switched to lower-proof stuff tonight.
Across the hall, Old Jack was holding court with a swarm of reporters, his big belly-laugh cutting through the noise every few seconds.
Fucco was deep in conversation with the association president, who kept throwing pitying glances Victor's way like he was some charity case.
"Look," Max dropped her voice. "Boxing World editor's trying to find you."
Victor followed her gaze. Sure enough, the balding editor was craning his neck. But before Victor could decide whether to wave, Anthony Flag (the newly minted national-team heavyweight) intercepted the guy and they started yapping like old pals.
Victor downed the rest of his glass. "Whatever. I'm over it."
Max slid the wine away. "Try the lobster. Forty-five bucks a plate; might as well enjoy something tonight."
Victor stabbed at the fancy food and actually felt hungry for once.
In a room full of boxing elite, being American still made him invisible, Golden Gloves or not.
He promised himself: Next time I see any of you in the ring, I'm ending you.
"Victor ?"
A warm voice behind him nearly made him knock over the glass (his body was definitely feeling the wine now).
He turned and almost dropped the shrimp in his hand.
Floyd Mayweather. Undisputed featherweight champ this year, still perfect at 27-0. Shorter than on TV, built like a coiled spring, wrist dripping with a diamond-crusted Richard Mille that caught every light in the room.
"Mr. Mayweather—" Victor lifted the shrimp like an idiot. "Want one?"
Floyd waved it off and dragged over a chair. "I watched your fights. That left hook? Straight freight train, man."
"Just lucky—"
Everybody lifts the sedan chair for each other. Old Jack had shown Victor tapes of Floyd's defense; it was art. "Your shoulder roll's the real deal. Like a Normandy landing craft with a shredder on top."
Floyd cracked up. "Appreciate that. Look, Victor (mind if I call you Victor?), your power scared me off ever moving up to heavyweight, swear to God."
They talked for the next twenty minutes straight.
Floyd broke down Victor's tendencies like a coach, even stood up and demoed a couple slips right there at the table. Victor soaked it in, red wine dripping on his cuff completely ignored, firing questions back about footwork drills.
"Movement," Floyd drew lines in the air with a fork. "Get yourself a reflex ball or a hex ball. Works wonders."
Victor was hooked.
"Floyd."
A deep voice cut in. Leonard Ellerby (Floyd's manager) stood there stone-faced. He sized Victor up like he was merchandise.
"Chairman wants photos."
Floyd patted Victor's shoulder, slipped him a business card. "We'll talk. Leonard would love to work with you."
Victor stared at the card long after Floyd disappeared into the crowd. "First manager who's actually reached out."
Max snatched the card. "Leonard's the real deal. He'd be perfect for you."
Victor nodded slowly.
"Let's bounce," Max said. "Told the crew to meet in 1808."
In the elevator, Victor leaned against the mirror, the two bottles finally hitting. He watched Max's reflection (beautiful, like a water lily, like jasmine, like a rose about to bloom… covered in thorns).
"You sure about this?" he asked out of nowhere.
Max kept her eyes on the floor numbers. "Contract ends end of March. I'm going back to Tennessee. Bar exam's locked in; I need two months to cram."
"I know."
Victor: "Sucks. A manager this good, and someone else gets you for free."
Max just smiled and said nothing.
Ding. 18th floor.
The suite was a different planet from the stiff banquet downstairs.
Ethan had already cracked the minibar whiskey, Ray was flipping through sports channels, Millie was plating fried chicken like it was Thanksgiving.
When Victor and Max walked in, Ray raised a beer. "There's our champ!"
Victor tossed his jacket on the couch. "Champ's getting blackout drunk with you animals tonight!"
The room erupted.
Ethan poured seven glasses of whiskey, Millie cranked Latin dance music on her phone.
Victor took his glass and suddenly realized: this was the last time the whole crew would be together.
"To Max," he raised his glass. "Best damn manager and even better friend."
Clink. Clear, perfect sound.
The next few hours were pure memory and alcohol.
They relived Victor's first back-alley brawl, the glorious beatdown of the Greek guy yesterday, every weigh-in where Victor had accidentally flexed and scared the room silent.
"Remember the gym that one time?" Ray was crying laughing. "Victor pukes on Fucco and Old Jack swears it was food poisoning from bad wine."
"Because you idiots made him drink ten tequilas the night before!" Millie yelled.
Max was flushed red, arm slung over Victor's shoulders. "This dummy's first move after realizing how good I am? Tries to bribe me with cash. Should've just asked me on a date, would've been cheaper!"
Victor wanted to die of embarrassment.
They never mentioned the south side crews or Gallagher; those people lived in the dirt and stayed there.
Only Ethan brought up Carl: "Yo, Carl actually got into West Point… hic… I always thought Lip would be the first one outta the hood!"
Thinking of Carl made Victor think of Nick (the kid who testified for him, got expelled because of it, ended up dead on the street). If Victor hadn't dragged him into that mess, maybe none of it would've happened.
Nick had been simple. Simple people can swing hard one way or the other. Yeah, he sold guns and killed a guy, but anyone who loved Carl that much couldn't be all bad.
Victor poured another whiskey, no ice this time.
The alcohol wrapped around him like a warm blanket, making Max's upcoming goodbye bearable.
"Jimmy," he leaned over to the criminal-defense lawyer, who was already floating. "You're good at this stuff, right?"
"Best there is, boss!"
"Friend of mine broke into a guy's house because the dude stole his bike. Smashed the guy's head in with a hammer, then sat there waiting for the cops."
Victor laid it out. "Any way to get him out or lighten the sentence?"
"Burglary-plus-murder?"
"Yeah."
"With a hammer? Multiple blows?"
"Yup."
"Motive was a stolen bike? Or he thought it was his bike?"
"Pretty sure it was his."
"Pretty sure?"
"South side; every bike looks the same."
Jimmy rubbed his temples; the booze and thinking were fighting. "This is tough."
Victor slung an arm around him. "Tough? Get it done and I'll personally give you a grand."
"Not about money—"
"Two grand."
"Only two angles: prove the bike was really his, and voluntary surrender."
"Three grand."
Jimmy's face darkened. Victor added quick: "Not insulting you, man. You're crew. It's just gonna take cash to grease wheels."
"Five grand."
Jimmy got it: if Victor would move heaven and earth for some kid who killed over a bike, he'd do the same for any of them one day.
"I got a fifty-percent shot."
"For real?"
"For real."
Jimmy laid out the playbook: lean hard on the bike ownership and the surrender, work the precinct detective with an offer he can't refuse, get the kid a psych eval (developmental delay, mental episode, whatever sticks), and finally convince the victim's family to write a letter asking for leniency.
Victor poured Jimmy another drink. "Five large enough to make it happen?"
"Fifty percent is if the first parts fall into place." Jimmy gave a drunk, bitter grin (the boss was already pouring, so the case was his). "Getting the family on board… that's the hard one."
Victor lit a cigarette, smoke curling around them.
"But south side people know how to survive."