Astoria Nights

By Paul A. Barra

He can knock the fillings out of a man’s teeth with either hand, but he can’t prevent his girlfriend from being murdered…Life is good for Catholic schoolteacher Terrence Muldoon. He owns his own house in Astoria, New York, and a one-year-old Volvo, both paid for. His only dependent is a rescued greyhound, and his avocation as a club fighter, under the ring name of Seamus Muldoon, provides all the excitement he needs. Then all that changes when his jockey girlfriend is killed during a race at Belmont. Unable to save her, Terry is driven to find out who wanted her dead, and why. Or was she just collateral damage? He teams up with a NYPD detective friend in a quest for answers that takes him to Myrtle Beach, the rural environs of South Carolina, into the world of Queens gangsters, down to the Brooklyn waterfront, and out to Fire Island. As if his mission isn’t fraught with enough danger, he’s training all the while for a bout with a man being touted as the next Ali. ESPN gives Terry only a “puncher’s chance.” But even if Terry survives the match, the investigation is winding up for a knockout punch as well, with Terry facing the toughest fight of his life…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Opal Books
• Release date: Feb 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781626946125

Book preview

He can knock the fillings out of a man’s teeth with either hand, but he can’t prevent his girlfriend from being murdered...

Life is good for Catholic schoolteacher Terrence Muldoon. He owns his own house in Astoria, New York, and a one-year-old Volvo, both paid for. His only dependent is a rescued greyhound, and his avocation as a club fighter, under the ring name of Seamus Muldoon, provides all the excitement he needs.

Then all that changes when his jockey girlfriend is killed during a race at Belmont. Unable to save her, Terry is driven to find out who wanted her dead, and why. Or was she just collateral damage? He teams up with a NYPD detective friend in a quest for answers that takes him to Myrtle Beach, the rural environs of South Carolina, into the world of Queens gangsters, down to the Brooklyn waterfront, and out to Fire Island. As if his mission isn’t fraught with enough danger, he’s training all the while for a bout with a man being touted as the next Ali. ESPN gives Terry only a puncher’s chance. But even if Terry survives the match, the investigation is winding up for a knockout punch as well, with Terry facing the toughest fight of his life...

KUDOS FOR ASTORIA NIGHTS

In Astoria Nights by Paul A. Barra, Terry Muldoon is a high school teacher whose hobby is boxing. Terry meets a woman jockey who quickly becomes a friend, and when she is killed in a bombing at Belmont race track, Terry is devastated. He’s determined to find out who killed her and why. His investigation takes him from New York to Florida and South Carolina and from the world of club fighting boxing, to the world of horse breeding and racing, and then into the realm of gangsters and murder. To help him find answers, Terry teams up with a detective in the NYPD. But the police might not be able to keep Terry from getting murdered. The story is well written, the plot strong, and the action tense and fast paced. Add in the superb character development, and you have a really great read.

Astoria Nights by Paul A. Barra is the story of a man who can’t accept the death of a friend killed in a terrorist attack. When New York City club fighter boxing champ Terrence Muldoon’s girlfriend, a jockey riding in a race at Belmont, is killed by a terrorist bomb during the race, Muldoon demands to know who. And why. Since the police can’t give him any answers, or at least not as quickly as he wants them, he starts his own investigation with the help of a friend in the NYPD. Since Muldoon has no restrictions imposed by jurisdiction that hampers the police, he heads south, digging for clues, and runs headlong into trouble. His quest exposes him to not only the world of horse racing and breeding, but also to gangsters, assassins, and murder. Surviving only by his wits and boxing skill, he uncovers some deep dark secrets that the perpetrators will go to any lengths to keep hidden, including the elimination of Muldoon. Astoria Nights is a complex, fast-paced, and hard-hitting thriller/mystery with glimpses into worlds that most of us would never see--horse racing-breeding, club fighting, and gangsters. With wonderful characters, an intriguing mystery, and plenty of edge-of-your-seat tension, this is one that you won’t easily put down once you start.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Faith is one of the theological virtues, a gift from God. Faith C, an editor at Black Opal Books, is also a gift from God. She saved this book from grammatical anarchy and from the opprobrium of readers and reviewers. Thank you, Faith.

Thank you also to my wife, Joni Lee, and my publicist Rowe, the Book Concierge, for their efforts on behalf of Astoria Nights. And to Anna Alishauskus for handling my website. I appreciate their faith in my work.

The same is true of the Middle Tyger Writers Group, Tim Bryant, and Marianne Scudder; thanks to Torie, Greg, and Carol-Ann, and to the folks at the Hub City Writers Night Out for their feedback and encouragement.

Astoria Nights

Paul A. Barra

A Black Opal Books Publication

Copyright © 2017 by Paul A. Barra

Cover Design by Melissa Carrigee

All cover art copyright © 2017

All Rights Reserved

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626946-12-5

EXCERPT

One minute there was breathtaking power and beauty, the next, only chaos and destruction, and my friend was gone...

I was captivated by the earthquake of power and the overwhelming burst of visionary and auditory excess created by the tons of horseflesh and the wild voices from the tens of thousands of bettors. God, this was fun.

When the nexus burst with a foreign sound and the symmetry of the race was suddenly disrupted, I didn’t comprehend what had happened at first. In an instant, I heard a dull thump that overpowered even the thudding of the hooves and the roar of the crowd, a thump that shook the earth. I saw silks moving vertically instead of forward. I saw a mist of pink that somehow pushed the jockeys up off their mounts. It was an image that seared into my cerebrum, as if the world had stopped for a second.

But of course it hadn’t. It had turned to chaos. Horses knocked into each other and fell, screaming, with great gouts of blood arcing into the air. Jockeys somersaulted, their greens and yellows and blues splashed with the same crimson founts that had turned the air pink when it first burst from flesh. Then I could hear nothing. The crowd’s huge voice had been silenced by the inexplicable occurrence. Time slowed. We all stared in stunned silence. The shock wave from the explosion blew down a steward’s camera tower behind the rail, splintered the infield rail, and bent brush and grasses flat. People ducked instinctively when they felt it.

I had risen to my feet when the explosion first went off. Now I sat back at the glasses. None of the jockeys had gotten up.

To Joni Lee, the fire and ice of my life

"And fire and ice within me fight

Beneath the suffocating night."

~ Alfred Edward Housman (1859-1936)

Chapter 1

MULDOON

Marcie once called Amos Bad Boy Bozard an ugly critter, and, from my perspective up close he was all of that and more. Some of his ugliness was his own doing. He had shaved his head, so that the wads of muscle and fat leading from his shoulders up the back of his neck stood out in great detail, lumped like an unmade bed and rolling up to the blood vessels and scars that decorated the sides of his head. Amos looked like a recent resident of Rikers Island. Maybe he was. His arms were covered with black tats that looked as if his younger brother drew them with a Sharpie. He was heavily muscled through the torso, and his scowl was every bit as thuggish as Sonny Liston’s when he hoped to intimidate a young Cassius Clay a half century ago.

Bozard might have intimidated me if he could jab or could put some of his bulk behind a straight right, but he could do neither well. And he was slow, even for a heavyweight. He was not a pleasant conversationalist in the clinch and his favorite adjective was a vile vulgarity that he tacked on to whitey and Irish bastard as he pushed his head into my face when he grabbed me. He smelled like an open septic tank, but I probably did too, since we were in the fifth and both of us were slippery with sweat.

The ugliness, the obscenities, and the odor didn’t really bother me because I often encountered similar stuff in my job, and I realized that unpleasantness could be part of the milieu of the game, but it did bother me when he knocked me down.

We broke from a clinch and I was tired. My arms felt heavy. I was getting frustrated with Bozard’s new tactic scheme: swing wildly once or twice, then close fast and hang on. I hadn’t been able to time his charges regularly yet, at least not when I was set down to punch hard, so I was wasting energy banging shots off his big arms and shoulders. But it was just a matter of time. I had put him on his can twice in the early rounds, before he resorted to his punch-clinch sequencing, when he actually tried boxing. None of that excused my blunder in the fifth.

I had eased back, upright, shaking my arms to loosen the biceps from their bunching. Bozard surprised me by coming forward from the clinch, fast, instead of backing off as he had been doing. He caught me with a right as my feet were crossing and my hands were down. I sat hard.

Prior to that fifth round knockdown, he had not hit me much, so I was far ahead on points, but I wanted to get rid of the bastard. The right hook that seated me, a glancing blow that could hardly be expected to alter the outcome of what had become a one-sided bout, caused him to alter his tactics and me mine.

I bounced up immediately, knowing my embarrassment showed, and hoping--I didn’t know why--that the blonde woman wasn’t laughing at me. The woman was the cause of my distraction. I’d noticed her while I was waiting for the opening bell. She glanced up at me as she made her way to her seat, and the look she gave me connected somehow, even though my mind should have been entirely focused on the pending battle. I couldn’t seem to get her out of my mind. She was off on the perimeter, to be sure, but a man engaged in a boxing match with a massive, angry man could ill afford any sort of diversion, partial or not. I also didn’t know why I even noticed her, to tell the truth.

Unless I was looking for someone in particular--and those people sat where I knew they’d be--the crowd was usually an amorphous mass to me when I was engaged in the ring. And it wasn’t as if this woman jumped out from the crowd with some kind of spectacular appearance either. She did look different, I’ll say that, but not in a way that would normally attract a lot of attention. It was the look on her face that caught my eye and captured my interest. But it was the look on the ref’s face that had my attention after the knockdown.

Augie Marino frowned at me, looking as if he was about to say it served me right for losing focus, but he counted to eight instead, holding his left hand against the middle of my chest and marking off the count with the fingers of his right. He asked me if I was okay.

Fine, no problem.

Come toward me, Seamus. Two steps.

I complied, so Augie rubbed the faces of my gloves against his shirtfront and released me to face my opponent. Bozard came after me fast, winging punches from both sides, any further defense strategy forgotten. That was his mistake, but it was also his final opportunity to raise his record to fifteen/eleven, and he knew it. I went into the Patterson peek-a-boo and moved my head and body up, down and sideways. Bozard grunted with each missed hook. I could hear them whistling past me.

In fifteen seconds, the whistling was coming from Bozard’s lungs. I raised up and pushed the tired heavyweight away. But Bad Boy wasn’t finished. He came back, lunging, a frantic look on his face as he flung another wide right hand. I went inside it and banged my own right into his open mouth. Because of his size and desperate charge, and because I had twisted my hips into the punch, the impact was stunning. It caught him in his rush forward, jolting me to the shoulder and raising him up and off his feet. His mouthpiece popped out as he bounced off the canvas like a starched mummy on a trampoline, arms by his side, feet straight up. He didn’t try to beat Marino’s count and needed help getting seated on his stool. I went over to him quickly but could see that the man was more worn out than hurt. The ring doctor shined a pencil light in his eyes, but they were open and his chest heaved, indicators to me that his brain, such as it was, still functioned.

Ambient sound like a furnace in full throat battered the ring. I turned away from the blue corner and saluted the seats with my right fist. That got another roar. The place smelled of beer and bodies. Crepes of cigar smoke edged near the ceiling. I knew people’s soles were sticking to the floor by this time of night, but they didn’t care. The crowd was up and about, yelling at the announcer as he made his way into the ring between the ropes and talking to each other in shouts and gestures. Back in my own corner, I had no trouble hearing my trainer over the noise of the crowd even though they’d packed the renovated Sunnyside Gardens to see a local fighter and they loved knockouts.

Was there something in the seats, now, that was more important to a fighter than the brute trying to kill him?

Sorry, Clancy. This guy was so bad, I had a hard time paying attention after a while.

But you’ll be quick to blame me or the game if you get puffed up around the eye and canna explain it to your students, won’t ya? It’s a short bit of work you’ve got, Terrence, three minutes at a time. You can pay attention that long.

I was saved from a reply by Marino, who came over to give me a pat on the fanny.

Nice fight, Seamus.

Thanks, ref. You worked harder than Bozard and me both tonight.

Augie walked off, smiling and shaking his head. I followed him to Bad Boy’s corner, throwing my arms down, trying to stay loose as the sweat dried. It was considered good form to commiserate with a beaten man and tell him what a good fight he put up. Bozard was still on his stool, legs splayed, mouth open, his belly hanging over the front of his black shorts. I tapped him on his shoulder with the inside of my glove.

Good one, Bad Boy. You’re a strong guy.

Lucky punch, Irish, he wheezed out.

I didn’t know if he was talking about his own punch that seated me or the KO, but I paused as I touched up with his cornermen. Sure was.

Back in the red corner Clancy unlaced my gloves and cut off the hand tape in silence, holding my wrist tightly to tune out my body motion. Once I got into the rhythm of a fight, it took a while before I could coerce my body back into the kind of stillness that I tried to manage outside the ring. I wasn’t bouncing anymore but my muscles kept me rolling and twitching. Our cut man, Taffy Trafficante, was pressing a little fluid from beneath my left eye with an Endswell. He snapped a look at Clancy. The trainer was angry that I had gotten knocked down and I could tell by the wide-eyed look on Taffy’s face that he didn’t like facing Clancy when he was like that. The cut man put the robe over my shoulders and, keeping me between himself and the trainer, held the ropes open. Terry Muldoon, AKA Seamus Muldoon, heavyweight, shuffled out of the hall, nodding and slapping palms with red-faced men who lined the aisle. Trafficante opened the dressing room door for me but didn’t go in.

You had him all the way, Seamus, but that knockout was a beaut.

Thanks, Taffy.

The cut man nodded three times then shut the door quietly and went away. I sat in the sudden silence. I was still sitting on the rubdown table when Clancy came back with the purse check.

Something wrong with the shower?

I’m trying to see how long it takes to cool off, Clancy. And it’s beginning to take too long.

The trainer’s eyes rolled and he put a gnarled hand to his forehead. We got to go through this age bullshit again? That mountain man is only twenty-three, lad, and you just took him apart in five. What more proof might you need that you ain’t over the hill?

Bad Boy Bozard is an early retiree, as you well know, Clancy. Ten years from now I’ll still be able to beat a bum who can’t move and punches with his arms. The point is, my body’s trying to tell me something.

Clancy came forward in a shuffle, making me start with the suddenness of the move. He had his chin tucked and fingers curled into open fists. He weaved like the old lightweight he was. Even though he lived on the shaded side of seventy, he still looked as if he could surprise a mugger or two on the city streets he walked every day. He twisted out a left and a right.

You had great combinations tonight, Seamus. Fast, hard. The crowd loved the knockdowns, and the kill was clean. You’re not that old.

I had learned after fighting under John Clancy for thirteen years that he was going for his own kill once he reverted to my fight name. We’d been over this ground every couple of weeks since Christmas. Now that the snow was melting into the curbside drains my resolve was also leaving. Clancy sensed this, of course, and ended the match.

I’ll pick ’em carefully, he said in a low voice. That’s why you pay me, boyo. No young Mike Tyson’s going to step in the ring with you. I know you need your brain, lad. And we both need this extra money, don’t we now?

I sighed and nodded, knowing full well that we two, without a dependent between us, hardly needed second jobs. But John Clancy was a New York fight man and there was no way even an educated boxer could compete with his wiles or his endurance. The trainer clapped me on the shoulder and pushed me in the direction of the shower room. It had been a short bout with Clancy.

***

Less than an hour later, I saw the blonde woman again. This time she was sitting in a booth at Cosmo’s, where fighters and others who made their living from the game went after a card at Sunnyside to enjoy some of the fruits of their labor. Mine was a mug of Killian’s from the tap, my second. She had a glass of wine in front of her. I couldn’t help but return her smile. It was the way she looked at me that lured me, as if she was appraising an old painting she couldn’t quite identify. She was slight with short hair and an easy grin. She turned from me and spoke to one of the men seated across from her. I recognized Jake Martin, a sports agent. Jake was part of the fight crowd, so I knew him even if I couldn’t really call him a friend. Clancy treated him the same way he treated most of the peripheral people to the game, guys who made a living from it without actually being involved in the fighting itself. He was polite to them but trusted nothing that wasn’t written in blood.

Martin listened to the blonde woman, nodded, and worked his way out of the booth. He slouched up to me. Nice fight, Seamus.

Thanks, Jake.

The guy’s not in your class, but the fans loved it. Go for the heavy timber, y’know?

Yeah, I guess they do.

You oughta, pal. You been getting rich thumping these kinda guys.

I’m just a club fighter, Jake. And I’m not a comer anymore. I don’t guess I got to tell you again that I don’t need representation.

I hated it when I started sounding like the guy I was listening to.

Sure, sure. Look, kid, I unnerstan and I ain’t here try to get a piece of you. I know Clancy a long time. He’s taking good care of you. I’m only here to wish you well and introduce you to an acquaintance of mine. Fact, I represent her.

What’s she do?

She’s a jock.

A what?

I’m a jockey.

I turned to the new voice. Standing in heels, the blonde woman was better than a foot shorter than me. She was dressed in a silky pale green blouse and holding red wine while her tongue licked imaginary droplets from the rim of the glass. Her features all seemed to fit together in a small face. The skin around her cheekbones was sort of roughened, as if she’d been out in the wind all day, and all of her other skin that I could see had some color to it, not the paleness that one would normally associate with a woman of her light hair. When she smiled, her blue eyes crinkled.

I’m Marcia Glasgow, big fella. You won’t hurt me if you shake.

I noticed then that she was holding out her hand. I quickly transferred my beer to my left, swiped my right on my pants and grasped her hand. It was cool and hard.

It’s nice to meet you, Miz Glasgow. I’m Terry Muldoon.

He’s a helluva fighter, Marcie. Don’t hardly ever get beat. Uh, remember, you got a big day tomorrow. See ya.

Martin patted me on the shoulder and walked off. I thought he seemed eager to leave.

So, what’s Jake mean about a big day?

I’m riding the second favorite in the Matterhorn Stakes. Belmont.

Oh, yeah? I follow the ponies a bit, but I don’t recall your name.

That’s why ol’ Jake-boy’s as jumpy as Henry’s cock.

Wh--what?

A rooster y’know. He’s nervous ’cause Henry’s looking for Sunday dinner. It’s an ol’ expression from down home.

And, I’m almost afraid to ask, where is down home?

Saluda, South Carolina.

She skipped over the o in Carolina. She smiled and finished off her wine. Waiting. I felt as if I had walked into a class that was being conducted in Portuguese. But the lady was waiting, so I plunged ahead.

And so, uh, why is Jake as nervous as Henry’s...er...rooster then?

I ride at a training track down to Aiken. I ain’t never been in a big race before, but ol’ Sandman does best with me aboard so the owner wanted me to ride him in the Matterhorn. Mr. Martin went along with it--not that he had much choice--and signed me to a contract. I do believe he’s afraid of being embarrassed, seeings how he never met me before today. Nor ever seen me ride.

Well, then, Marcie, you just ought to kick old Sandman home in front tomorrow. We’ll all be there to cheer you on.

The jockey grinned at that.

You’re such a nice young fella, I’m going to let you buy me another drink.

We sat at the bar for a while. I limit myself to two beers after a fight, but I quaffed an extra that night and Marcia had two more glasses of wine as we talked. The bartender lined up three mugs of beer that fans bought me. I acknowledged each one with a nod and glass salute, but the beers sat on the bar until their heads fell and the bubbles all popped into the heavy air of the barroom. Three glasses from the tap was my absolute limit.

I was fascinated with Marcie’s eloquence when she spoke about horses and at her open enjoyment of the moment thrust upon her. The race was an opportunity to showcase her talent. Unlike her promoter, she wasn’t afraid of being embarrassed.

No way it could happen, don’t you see? The horse shipped good and he’s in great shape, so he’s gonna run good no matter who’s in the saddle. I’m just gonna make it look like I earned my fifteen minutes in the sun.

Every time someone stopped by the bar to congratulate me, she smiled brightly at the newcomer and asked him some question that eased the sense of interrupting or acted as a curtain call. He done good, didn’t he? Wasn’t that a punch, now? Don’t he get better every fight? Didn’t you like the way he let ol’ Bozard punch himself out before he put ’im away? I marveled at her social skills and found I was enjoying them. When I felt my body begin to sag from the effort of the fight, I wondered how she would handle our own curtain call.

I’m starting to fade, Marcie. Can I give you a ride home while I’m still upright?

Sure can. I’m staying with a family in Astoria. Know it?

Sho’ ’nuff.

She punched me in

Reviews for Astoria Nights

[Jeanie Pantelakis · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great story! A real man's book! If you like boxing, murder, and mayhem, you have just bought the right book.
— CJ Loiacono