The Long Game

By David Gearing

A WEB OF DECEIT AND AMBITION

Charlie Rainis's up-and-coming boxing star has drawn the attention of Papa Cass, deadliest boxer in Tucson's underground boxing world. When he challenges William "Whiteout" Moran a few rounds in the squared-circle, Charlie refuses to send her favorite boxer to certain death. That's not the kind of fame Charlie needs or wants.

But Big Papa Cassidy doesn't take no for an answer. It's bad for business.

Charlie must outsmart a mad superfan from getting Whiteout killed while avoiding the attention of the attractive and aggressive detective Andrea Reese.

You know, business as usual.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Gearing
• Release date: Sep 20, 2020

David Gearing

David Gearing is a recent transplant from the harsh Arizona deserts to the green forests of the Pacific Northwest. He plots, he games, he pretends to be his own living room rockstar when no one is looking. His other books range from various genres from thrillers to gothic horror and beyond. You can find him at his webpage DavidGearingBooks.com or at his publisher's website AkusaiPublishing.com

Book preview

1

Charlie Ranis took her soft hands and pressed them together. Please, Lord, let it be another seven.

She let the dice fly from her hands out onto the soft velvet craps table. Her technique was simple: keep her palm up, her fingers together, but open. She breathed in while pulling the dice back and then let it all out—nice and slow—as the dice did their thing.

Nice and simple.

There was a familiar smell of sweet strawberries in the air. A perfume that used to belong to her girlfriend. But it tasted stale in her throat as it mixed with the unmitigated mess of cigarette smoke and enclosed, almost claustrophobic, air circulation.

Charlie had taken a liking to the small man on the other side of the craps table. The man wore a suit and jacket that seemed a bit too big in the shoulders and too tight in the belly. They hung loose everywhere else. Maybe borrowed.

Standard casino-issued, Charlie realized. With these tips—and as nice as the guy was, he couldn’t have been doing well—there was no way he could afford a nice jacket.

The tacky ass bow tie with giant dots, green on pink? Yeah, that had to be something he bought himself. The man had to be in his thirties. His comb-over and thick eyebrows announced that he was single. No, not just single. This is what a Dear John letter would look like if it became a person.

Charlie breathed in—breaking protocol—as he waited for the answer. He could never look into the dice. That would be sacrilege.

We have a six, the man said.

And I was just starting to like you, David. Charlie fingered through the money in her pocket. More chips seemed tempting, but she had lost track of Billy.

Thank you, ma’am. He smiled and Charlie had immediately wished he hadn’t. His teeth made up most of his mouth like his gums had gone into hiding.

I said I was starting to. Charlie pointed at the table with her long, slender fingers—fingers that desperately needed a manicure—and directed his gaze to the four and snake-eyes on the red felt. Before that shit happened.

The man adjusted his silly ass tie, speechless.

It was just as well.

Charlie collected her clutch from the edge of the table and tucked it just under her arm. It felt awkward, and she never understood why women carried this shit. Her style wasn’t in dresses—though this silver gown had been absolutely beautiful in the window. The dress helped her show off the girls, who were looking particularly great tonight, and yet somehow didn’t make her look like a complete and total dyke. That was a plus.

Just after her haircut, damn near bald, she started to get strange looks.

No, I’m not transgender. I could give a fuck what pronoun you use. She had the speech memorized, especially when she hit up the college bars on the weekends.

And this casino was a far, far cry from college bars. She would have rather been at the University of Arizona college bars than hanging out just south of the town. The desert was lovely, but there were scorpions. And cactus. And snakes.

She felt her sphincter clench tight at the thought of the snakes. The shiver shook up her spine and dispersed into her shoulders.

She stepped out onto the carpeted floor, just under a bright blue neon sign that buzzed just loud enough to be heard over the mariachi music. The carpet had been designed to look like chevrons, pointing you back into the gambling floor where you belonged.

Fucking Tucson.

William would be away from the tables. That much she knew. He was tall, his nose was rather large, but his hazel eyes almost seemed to glow against his otherwise swarthy appeal.

Not that she was into swarthy. She was into soft and delicate, with one’s organs on the inside, not dangling outside the body.

William? she called out.

Oddly enough, no one reacted.

Charlie approached the front desk, walking past the Pai Gow tables and the one poker table that still had an empty seat. She wanted to learn Pai Gow, but at a ten-buck minimum, she wasn’t willing to let her learning curve cost her.

The front desk had seemed less like a desk and more like a marble shelf for plastic sign holders and business cards to come meet up and hang out. There was an excess of them, almost confusing. Charlie had no idea where to lay her elbows as she leaned over to the heavy-set Pascua Yaqui woman behind the counter.

Excuse me, she said.

The woman looked up slowly from the small cell phone in her hand. She was playing Words with Friends. Her name tag had been covered in the folds of her burgundy vest as she leaned over her phone. Her name had started with an S. Beyond that, Charlie had no clue what to call her.

Hi, miss. Charlie flashed her the confident smile that had landed her dozens of straight women in her bedroom. Sammy-with-a-y or Susan or Sharon here wasn’t her type, but a woman was a woman was a woman. I’m looking for a big guy, dark hair, hazel eyes, cute smile. He looks a little simple, you know, like he got hit in the head a little bit too much?

Sophia or Samantha or Shiloh, she nodded and then pointed just over Charlie’s shoulder.

Charlie raised an eyebrow and turned around.

The dolt had been staring at the Nissan parked in just in front of the exit to the building.

Thank you, Selah, Charlie said. I appreciate it.

My name is Sue, the woman said. She peeled back her vest to reveal the other two letters.

Of course it is, Charlie said, and nodded. Do you like boxing? she asked.

Sue shook her head. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a long braided tail that extended down her back. Charlie had expected that to be too much of a stereotype to be true, but here it was, plain as day. No, Sue said. It’s too violent. She paused, looking down at a piece of paper on the desk. She peered up with a smile. Are you here to see the fight? she asked.

Charlie nodded. Yes, we are. She pointed back over her shoulder again at the dope who had just wandered off yet again. My client back there? He’s a fighter. A boxer, really. William ‘Whiteout’ Moran.

Sue nodded. Her interested was waning.

If anything, Charlie could take a hint. She flipped through her clutch, black leather that probably wasn’t real leather despite what her last girlfriend Maddy had told her. Here, she said. My card. In case you need any representation.

Sue took the card and for a moment seemed impressed.

The cards weren’t expensive, but they looked nice. Translucent vellum with green lettering—sans serif, of course—that read: Charlie Ranis.

Underneath, in larger, bolder green lettering: Manager, Sports and Entertainment.

Sue politely nodded and shuffled the card away on the desk. Thank you, she said.

Charlie turned around, walking toward the car.

The entire casino seemed to be trying too hard to be Vegas in the Sonoran Desert. Columns everywhere, a fake sky painted onto the ceilings. She tasted cigar ash against the back of her throat with every breath.

But this was for William. The eventual cancer from second-hand smoke, the two-hundred dollars she just lost at craps, the heartburn from the shitty mixed drinks. All of it for him.

This dingbat boxer with the attention span of a hyperactive mayfly.

William, for god’s sakes, where the hell are you? Charlie turned the corner and watched as William pulled on a long metal arm on the side of a slot machine. Three white reels spun quickly, looking like cartoon eyes after the character just got bitch-slapped.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Nothing, Charlie said. You lost. Can we go to the match now?

William wore a green suit that had been measured for his shoulders six months ago when he was still training four hours a day. Now the poor jacket was under too much stress, those poor seams crying out for relief.

But he looked hot. And tough. His hair had been cut short, with enough gel to reflect the lights of the cameras back at them. It gave him a classic pretty-boy look, a great smile and strong jawbone. If Sylvester Stallone had an awkward night with James Dean, this is what the stork would bring in nine months.

The ladies loved him, and Charlie knew it. They had to protect the face at all costs.

Can I try again? William said. He held out two thick fingers. A twenty-dollar bill folded over like a tired flag.

Charlie eyed the pearl face of her gold watch, then closed her eyes. She knew she shouldn’t say this, but the words left her mouth, anyway. Sure, why not?

William reached over, pulling her in for a tight hug. His sweet cologne had tickled her nose. She had missed that smell. Of her brother’s cologne before he left for Iraq and returned in a black bag. Having only shacked up with girls, she was used to the fruity, flowery smells of perfume. But that musk. There was something about it she missed.

Thank you, William said. He shoved the twenty-dollar bill into the machine and pulled the arm again.

You can just push the button here, Charlie said. She pointed at the bright red button big as a Texan’s belt buckle. See? It says spin.

William smiled warmly and shrugged. This feels more authentic, William said.

Sure, Charlie said.

How do you know what time it is? William asked. He looked up around the room, twirling around until he faced the machine again.

It stopped, each white reel staring at him with three diamond eyes along the red bar across the screen.

Lights blinked, the sound of change hitting a metal tray sounded off through poor, run-down speakers. Then nothing.

William knelt down, looking for the tray. Where’s the money? he asked.

Charlie sighed again. Closed her eyes. Breathed out. It’s right here, she said, pointing at the red number in the lower right corner. See? Where it says credits. Christ on crutches, she shouted. You won two hundred dollars. She looked up at the machine, then back down again. We’re leaving. Now. Before you blow it all.

She pressed the cash out button and a white slip came out with black letters on it. $215.

How are you so lucky? she asked.

It’s because I’m pretty. His face was still, his lips in a cold smirk.

He was trying a joke.

Charlie paused for a moment and handed over the slip. Because Luck be a lady tonight? she said with a sigh.

William fired finger guns at her and smirked. He was so lucky he was cute.

2

They were seated in the middle of the western edge of the arena. If it could even be called that. Charlie had seen community college performances in a black box theater that were bigger than this hunk.

Still, it drew seats at prices that William could only dream of.

Not Charlie. She had been a woman who knew what she wanted. And this box? It just wasn’t it. William was worth more than that.

William shuffled his feet, staring down at the seat and then at the ring again. I’m not sure I can see, he muttered.

Charlie nodded. Then here. Take my seat. She held in her stomach and let William slide past her into his metal seat. The arrangement felt informal, like an underground fight club. But the scene had drawn both blue and white collars alike. Mostly men, which was a drag, but typical.

Charlie couldn’t tell if the room was painted black or if the lighting was just that shitty. It seemed like every beam of light somehow came out of the same circular lamp in the middle of the room, suspended from the ceiling with three thick cables to keep it in place. It swung slightly as people came into the room and doors slammed on both ends of the arena.

It was the swinging that finally got her. Not the smell of nearly a hundred smelly men crammed into a dark box. Not the fact that she had lost more money than she cared to admit at the craps table. And the poker table. And yes, even a slot machine or three. And it wasn’t the look of the stale nachos that some insensitive asswipe left in their seat one row down from them.

The light’s subtle swing gave Charlie the illusion that the room had also been moving. She felt afraid to close her eyes and let the feeling spin her brain around in her head. But keeping her eyes open, that only meant she could watch the shadows along the seats move forward, then backward slowly.

Are you all right? William said. He had finally figured out how to unbutton his green jacket and then sit down so he didn’t pop a button.

Yes, Charlie said. She held the back of her hand against her forehead and felt for heat and moisture. No sweat. You keep an eye out on the big guy. That’s Papa Cass.

William shot her a look.

Papa Cassidy. It’s his working stage name. Charlie didn’t have to tilt her head toward William to feel his blank stare. It’s not that inspired, I know. But he’s playing the Irish angle.

He’s got red hair?

Charlie nodded. Yes, but it’s red-red. Not orange red like a proper son of the emerald isle. The guy wants to be a celebrity.

The room filled up with more loud men, shaved and mustaches, suits and jean jackets all crammed into the same room. Breathing the same air. Underneath the same damned swinging light bulb.

I thought it was supposed to be Mama Cass? William whispered as the room grew silent.

Charlie bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. She did not notice the wide beams of light that indicated where there were entrances when she had sat down. Those beams of light grew narrower until they disappeared and the room grew dark.

Ladies and gentlemen, a voice announced. The voice was smooth, filled with bass that echoed off the black cement walls like the notes off an acoustic guitar. We would like to ask you to please shut off your cell phones.

Charlie leaned in over at William’s shoulder. Keep your eyes on Cass, she said. Forget the black guy. He’s not even in your league. And he’s favored to lose.

That’s racist, William said.

No, it’s not. He’s not very good. He’s here because Jim, his manager, owes someone big.

William raised an eyebrow. Big?

Charlie shrugged it off. Stop worrying about that. Keep your eye on the prize. Watch his technique, his movements. Watch where he swings and how he attacks.

William nodded and pried his eyes wide open.

Darkness. The only sign that people were still in that room were the sounds of nervous shuffling of feet. A cough. A chuckle.

Then, in the middle of the squared circle, a man in a silver suit jacket and black pants stood tall, holding a microphone suspended from the ceiling. He stared out with a smile in his eyes through round glasses that made him look both old and smart. His thinning hair and turtle-like chin only helped him look smarter.

He took in a quick breath and then drew the microphone near his mouth. Prepare for the match of the night and welcome John D Lightning into the ring. At six-foot-four and two fifty pounds, John D hopes to take down the Saguaro Arena’s very own champion, Papa Cassidy.

Foot stomps rattled the floorboards of the makeshift seating. Men from both sides booed as a tall, dark man came into the room wearing a bright red cape reminiscent of James Brown, that scene where he’s taken off the stage by someone wrapping a cape around his shoulders.

Except James Brown didn’t walk out in a thick tree-trunk legs and shorts so tight they showed his religion.

A tiny man in an oversized sports coat and dark jeans followed John. His white shoes moved quickly, like a cartoon character’s feet. John’s manager, James Chatwin, had been known to lose thousands of dollars in a single sitting. And though Charlie never had the luxury of taking his money personally, she knew many people who had, and they all had one thing in common to say about the poor old fool: He was smart, but had no patience.

Impatient people think of themselves, not of the others at the table.

Poker isn’t about your hand. It’s about everyone else who’s playing. It was a lesson Charlie learned that had applied in life as well. Thinking about herself had only gotten her into trouble. But if she was patient, learned to play the game, sooner or later she could beat all the other players.

And sometimes, it was all about the bluff. If you believed it, so would they. As a boxing manager, Charlie considered herself smart enough to apply this to her lifetime and again. Not always successfully, but again, this wasn’t about her.

It was about everyone else at the table.

The lights grew dark again and the silver turtle of a man spoke into the microphone yet again. And returning tonight, our star, our champion. Standing at six-foot-three and weighing in at two hundred and thirty-five pounds, Papa Cass.

Bag pipes blew, screeches breaking through the speakers that were hung in the corners of the room in groups of five. The lights flashed on, flickering on and off to simulate ghetto strobe lights. Narrow streams of light poured in from track lighting hidden near on the floor along Cass’s walkway. Light so pure it seemed blue, not white.

Cass stood in long shorts that came just to his knees, his hands on his hips. His bare chest had been cleanly shaved with red nicks and bruises along his pecs looking like purple bruises in the light.

Cass made sure everyone saw his bright, big smile, his perfect hair combed to the side. The deep red also approaching purple in the obnoxiously blue spectacle.

Don’t get any ideas, Charlie said, leaning over to William. We’re not doing this.

William’s smile quickly disappeared, and he nodded his understanding.

By this time the room had gotten warm. No sign of air conditioning or fans just yet. Charlie was glad her dress had no sleeves, but William—that poor dolt—he had to be sweating his balls off in that polyester suit.

She could go get him some water, but that should be the gentlemen’s job.

Cass strutted down the walkway, past the rows of seats—padded folding chairs down at that level. He stopped to pose, flexing a bicep one at a time for the cameras flashing that were supposed to have been confiscated at security.

Showboating, William said.

Right, and what did we say about showboating? Charlie said.

Showboating is for losers, William said.

Charlie shook her head. No, that’s not what we said.

I don’t want to say it, William said. You say it.

We say ‘Fuck showboating.’ Say it with me now, Charlie said. She held out her hands as if drawing the words from her mouth.

But William crossed his arms over his chest. No.

Fine, Charlie said. She pretended to turn away in a huff, but that was just for show. She had been proud of the way William handed himself in stressful situations. For a boxer, he didn’t give in to rage unless he had been hit. It was a thing with him. Like a single bruise could trigger a flood of testosterone into his system.

It worked out well for him in the ring, so Charlie didn’t say anything.

But sometimes she wished he would use some of that testosterone out of the ring. There were too many times they were together, and she needed to step up—to be the man, as it were—and defend his honor.

Sure, this was the twenty-first century, but no one said men had to stop being men, for Christ’s sakes.

Cass had stopped strutting long enough to climb into the ring and take his corner. His manager was less of a showboat, and almost as wide as a real boat. The man waddled with hips nearly as wide as he was tall. His bald head, wide green eyes, and mysteriously smooth skin made most people guess he was younger than he really was, though his exact age was a closely guarded secret.

He could have been