Hugh took his advice and drove away from the Strip, alone in his little truck, where no one could hear him mumbling to himself about losing the girl. They’d been together for over five months and she’d taught him things he’d never dreamed of, and, as much as he despised what she did for a living, he’d found a way to forgive her and carry on. She couldn’t just disappear without saying goodbye.
He drove to Buster’s and went through the motions of a light workout, but only because Buster expected him to. He poked around to see if anyone had seen Fuzz Foster in the ring, but came away with no scouting report. His mind was on his girl, not boxing. He knew Nevin was at Red Velvet, on duty, every night at 5:00 when happy hour started and the cover charge went into effect. He found him at the bar drinking a soda and having a cigarette with one of the waitresses.
Nevin frowned when he saw him and said, “You looking for another fight?”
“No, just need to talk.”
“Well, not here. You’re still too young, Sugar Ray.”
“Let’s go outside.”
Behind the club, both lit cigarettes. “What happened to Cindy?” Hugh asked.
Nevin shook his head as he blew a cloud. “I’ve been telling you to forget about her.”
“I know, but please, what happened?”
“Yesterday, we got a call from some cops over in Arkansas. Somebody tracked her and knew she was working here. As you know, she’s only sixteen. We didn’t admit that and told the police the girl had an ID that said she’s eighteen. You know the drill. So, this morning two cops from Arkansas showed up with her brother. We had no choice but to cooperate, and now she’s back home where she belongs. Forget her, Hugh. She’s just another hooker. There’ll be plenty more where she came from.”
“I know.”
“You need to be thinking about the fight tomorrow night. They only get tougher.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Then toss away that cigarette.”
* * *
At first glance, it wasn’t clear where the nickname “Fuzz” originated. No bushy head of hair, certainly no whiskers to speak of. He was only sixteen, and had casually mentioned to one of the Biloxi boxers that he had won five of his six fights. No one had yet asked about the nickname, not that it mattered at all. What mattered was his stocky frame and oversized biceps. Impressive for a teenager. If Jimmy Patterson had been as skinny as a rail, Fuzz Foster was as thick as a fireplug. Nor did Fuzz have any patience with dancing and jabbing. What Fuzz wanted was a first-round knockout, preferably in the first thirty seconds, and he almost got it.
At the bell, while Hugh was still smiling at his friends from school, Fuzz shot across the ring like an angry bull and began unloading roundhouse rights and lefts that could’ve wounded a heavyweight if they had landed anywhere near Hugh’s head. Mercifully, none did, and, startled, he covered up and tried to stay away from the ropes. His survival instincts kicked in immediately and he ducked and dodged the onslaught as best he could. Fuzz was a madman, slinging leather from all directions while hissing and grunting like a wounded animal. Buster shouted, “Cover up, cover up. He’s crazy!”
Hugh, along with every other person in the building, knew that Fuzz was unloading everything and wouldn’t last for three rounds. The question was whether Hugh could survive the onslaught. Regardless, the crowd loved the unbridled action and was roaring.
An uppercut got through and rocked Hugh. A right cross landed and it was lights out. He fell to the canvas as Fuzz stood over him, yelling something no one could understand. The referee shoved him to a corner as Hugh managed to get on all fours. Looking through the ropes, he made eye contact with Nevin Noll, who was yelling and shaking his fist. Get up! Get up! Get up!
Hugh took a deep breath, looked up at the referee, and on the five-count jumped to his feet. He steadied himself with the top rope, wiped his nose with a forearm, and saw blood. He had a choice. Stay under cover on the ropes like a proper boxer and get eaten alive, or go after the bastard.