Lamb to the Slaughter

By Pete Delohery

Lamb to the Slaughter is a novel about love and courage, sin and redemption. “Iron” Mike McGann, 32 years old, is facing the twilight of his prizefighting career. Desperate for his future, he has refused to honor his promise to his wife to quit the ring and start a family. In despair, his wife, Madge, is leaving him.
Rufus “Hurricane” Hilliard, Mike’s next opponent, is the most menacing presence in prizefighting. He has won all 22 of his fights by knockout and is said to be a former enforcer for something called The Black Mafia. But behind Rufus Hilliard’s menacing ring presence lives a man nobody knows, a complex man who despises his own image. Unexpectedly left alone before his bout with McGann, Rufus “Hurricane” Hilliard is forced to confront the past that haunts him and the future he dreads.
Charles “Charliehorse” O’Connell, Rufus’s cornerman, has been terrorized by a mob kingpin to sabotage him. O’Connell, who is an alcoholic and a compulsive gambler, blames himself for the ring deaths of two prizefighters. Trapped in a moral crisis, Charles “Charliehorse” O’Connell must finally confront his “Cardinal Sin.”
Rufus “Hurricane” Hilliard vs “Iron” Mike McGann, just another fight shown on The Continuous Sports Network, but by the time it is over the lives of these and many others will be forever different.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465339294

Book preview

Part One:

THE UNDERCARD

Round One:

The Blue Horizon

In a hotel room in a London suburb three black men went about that most arduous and agonizing of all tasks: killing time. Each was lost in the limbo that always precedes long-planned-for events. Bo, fat, gray haired, and middle-aged, sat at a writing table and played solitaire. Luke, a lanky man in his middle thirties, nervously tapped his foot as he tried to read a magazine. The third man, in his mid-twenties, sat cross-legged on one of twin beds and stared vacantly at a painting of a hunting scene on the opposite wall. He stared beyond horses and hounds into the painting’s deep blue sky. He muttered unintelligibly. He wore blue jeans and was bare-chested. He resembled an ebony anatomy chart; his every muscle, every artery was visible in stark detail.

Luke threw his magazine to the floor, rose, and stalked into a smaller adjoining room. Bo observed Luke’s departure and then got up and approached the man on the bed. He murmured softly: Johnny? He murmured this several times more, like a mother tenderly awakening a sleeping child. Finally, the muscular young man turned his face and stared at him vaguely. I’m gonna be gone for a few minutes, hear? the fat man crooned. The younger man nodded. You stay put ’til I get back, OK? The young man nodded again, and then returned his gaze to the painting, to the sky beyond the horses and hounds. He resumed his murmurings.

Bo entered the adjoining room and found Luke pacing the floor; every two or three steps he drove a fist into a palm. Luke glanced at Bo and spoke in a voice ragged with frustration: Most fighters gotta loose weight t’make the weight, he snarled. Our man gotta gain!

Bo turned and shut the door quickly but quietly.

Thought I was gonna have to shove a rock up his ass ’fore we took him to the weigh-in! Luke whimpered.

Lighten up, man! Bo commanded in a low, firm voice. And keep it down. We don’t want Johnny hearin’ somethin’ like that, not now.

Luke stopped pacing and faced Bo. His hand trembled as he pointed toward the next room. "That thing in there ain’t Johnny! he insisted. Johnny’s dead, man! He died when Angel Lopez did!"

Bo approached Luke, gripped his shoulders and shook them. "That man in there is Johnny Knight! he snarled. Johnny Knight! The lightweight champion of the world! And it’s up to you an’ me to help him stay that way!"

Help him! How? We can’t fight for him, and he can’t fight for hisself! Not like he is.

You’ve seen him spar—

Sparrin’ ain’t fightin’! I tol’ you weeks ago to forget this!

I was willing to forget it, Luke, but the people weren’t.

The people! An’ just who in the hell are these damn people anyway? Luke demanded.

Bo’s expression became somber. Like they used to say in Washington, D.C. he muttered, you don’t know and you don’t wanta know.

Luke turned and paced away from Bo. He been actin’ funny ever since you quit givin’ him them pills, he said.

He can’t train with that junk in him.

The doctor say he hafta take them pills a long time! Luke insisted stubbornly.

Bo sneered. Yeah? Well, the doctor ain’t gonna be fightin’ Kenny Douglas. Johnny gonna be doin’ that.

Suddenly Luke seemed to grow tired. He stopped pacing and sat on his bed. He rested his elbows on his thighs and cupped his down-turned face in his palms. Bo approached him. Luke, he said gently, doctors don’t know everything. Now, Johnny lost hisself in the ring an’ that’s where he’s gonna find hisself. All he needs is one fight, one win, then he’ll be fine.

Luke looked up at Bo. Doubt struggled with hope in his expression. Bo . . . they say this Kenny Douglas is dangerous.

Well sure he dangerous, Bo crooned. Any dude crazy enough to climb into the ring’s dangerous, if only to hisself.

Luke looked at Bo like a man dying of thirst who finally sees an oasis and desperately prays for it to be real and not a mirage. Do you really think so? he whispered.

Bo nodded decisively. The ring’s where he got lost an’ the ring’s where he be found, he stated.

In the adjoining room Johnny Knight sat and stared into the blue horizon. He was silent now, his expression serene. He was being visited by Angel Lopez. Johnny Knight was never too busy for Angel Lopez because Angel Lopez liked Johnny Knight. Loved him even.

Forgave him.

Round Two:

A Magician and His Lad

In a seedy hotel room near London’s Soho district a young man lay flat on his back on a bed and stared at a small spot of light on the ceiling. His hands rested one on top of the other on his chest as if they had been placed there by an undertaker. His eyelids drooped sleepily; his blank expression and the attitude of his body suggested total relaxation. But even in repose there was an aura of menace about him; he was like a serpent sunning itself on a rock.

His arms and torso were unusually long; his legs were short and heavily muscled. He had grown up with the nickname Ape. His name was Kenny Douglas, and he had been born and raised in the Lanarkshire coal field in the central lowlands of Scotland. Like others in his situation, unemployment and desperation had pushed him into the boxing ring. On this night he would fight Johnny Knight; at stake would be the lightweight championship of the world.

Sitting backwards on a hard-backed chair near the head of the bed was a man with a handlebar mustache. His red hair and freckles made him appear younger than his fifty-two years. His arms hugged the chairback as he regarded Kenny with affection and pride. In a resonant, lilting voice he spoke to his boxer, describing ocean wave after ocean wave pounding, pounding, pounding the rocky coast of Scotland. The man went by the nickname Jocko, and he was Kenny Douglas’s manager and trainer.

Kenny Douglas’s ring record, a modest twenty wins against six losses, concealed his true ability. He had always been known as a banger, a straight-ahead, hard-punching brawler. It was said that if Kenny Douglas were to fight a Sherman tank in a tunnel the tank would be an 8-to-5 underdog. But in the ring it had been another story. For some mysterious reason, lateral movement by his opponent had been a source of eternal vexation to Kenny. When his opponents circled him and then changed direction, Kenny became confused, his feet became tangled, his stance evaporated. Frustrated, he charged wildly and as a result he lost decisions or was stopped by cuts against mediocre opponents. But he also won fights, and always the same way, by knockout.

Then, one terrible winter, Kenny lost three fights in a row and suffered a serious loss of confidence. His ring record was a mediocre thirteen and six when his management gave up on him and went looking for another fighter.

At this crucial moment in Kenny’s young life, Jocko MacPherson appeared.

Jocko had been in the crowd watching each of Kenny’s recent losses, and something he saw had made his eyes light up. It was obvious to Jocko that Kenny’s performance was suffering simply because he was an unorthodox fighter being forced to fight in an orthodox style. Kenny’s strong legs and back were the source of an unusual—and as yet unexploited—punching power, but, as any fool should see, he would never master the lateral movements of an accomplished boxer. But of more interest to Jocko was the way Kenny’s stance kept deserting him, his predictable confusion between his right and left hands at crucial moments in a fight. Jocko thought he knew why this kept happening, and when he tested Kenny in the gym, to his immense delight, he discovered that he had solved the puzzle.

Kenny’s confusion stemmed from the fact that he was ambidextrous: he had the same coordination in each arm. Neither a right-handed nor a left-handed stance was inherently natural to him, hence the confusion under stress.

What had been a liability would now become an asset.

In the gym that day Jocko gave a bewildered Kenny Douglas a fatherly hug. Laddie, he said, you and I are going to accomplish great things!

Jocko made Kenny adopt the peek-a-boo stance favored by Floyd Patterson and Jose Torres; his gloves covered most of his face, and his forearms protected his elongated, vulnerable torso. He taught Kenny to cut off the ring, to relentlessly force his opponents into corners and to force himself inside, to hammer underhand rights and lefts to his opponent’s ribs, then suddenly step back and launch a barrage of hooks and crosses to the head.

The success of these tactics was ensured by something Jocko called the Douglas Shuffle. When Kenny trapped his opponent in a corner, the Douglas Shuffle enabled him to shift instantly from a right-handed to a left-handed stance, back and forth, so that every punch was thrown with maximum power. No jabs, no breather for his beleaguered opponent, every punch was lethal. Since Jocko had become Kenny’s manager and trainer, Kenny had won seven straight fights, all by knockout. The Douglas Shuffle was just plain deadly.

But the Douglas Shuffle wasn’t the only trick in Jocko’s bag. Jocko was a man who overlooked no detail, left nothing to chance. During his youth, Jocko had been an entertainer and social director at a resort in Brighton where he had performed magic tricks and demonstrations of hypnotism. He had employed hypnotism with Kenny from the start. He sat now and regarded Kenny carefully; he no longer spoke of ocean waves striking the rocky coast of Scotland. The whole world is now yours for the taking, Laddie, he murmured. And take it you will. You’re at your peak. In the words of the great Joe Louis: He can run, but he can’t hide.

Kenny Douglas: twenty wins, six losses. All twenty wins by knockout and all against young, tough fighters. But there was one fact about Kenny’s ring career that would never be generally known, not even known to the thorough and meticulous Jocko. And that fact was that after Kenny had beaten the hell out of them, no less than five of his opponents had quit the ring for good.

Round Three:

Beyond the Blue Horizon

A crowd of twenty thousand packed Wembley Stadium on a hot night in May. The British Isles were awash in a record setting heat wave. At 10:45 p.m. the temperature was eighty two degrees Fahrenheit. A large portion of the crowd consisted of disgruntled soccer fans from Scotland. Scotland had entered the World Cup competition that year with high hopes for success; they had vowed to make defending champion Argentina cry, only to fail to make Paraguay whimper. They had been eliminated early, an embarrassment many in the crowd were still trying to swallow with the aid of their own finest malt. They were assembled now to view the confrontation between Johnny Knight, the World Lightweight Champion, and their own Kenny Douglas; they had traveled a long way to watch their laddie avenge the honor of Scotland.

While they awaited the arrival of their boy-o, they chanted darkly poetic promises of carnage in store for the reigning champion. Their efforts were unrehearsed, yet they spoke in one voice that could be heard for blocks.

Bagpipes shrieked, and the crowd roared in answer. Spotlights searched the stadium, and then locked on a dozen marching pipers dressed in kilts. The pipers were followed by Jocko MacPherson and Kenny Douglas.

The roar of the crowd grew louder as Jocko parted the ropes and Kenny climbed into the ring. Jocko helped Kenny out of his robe, and as Kenny trotted around the ring throwing punches at an invisible opponent, the stadium rocked with primordial thunder.

Kenny’s trunks were a red, yellow and black tartan; his skin glowed phosphorescently under the harsh Halogen light. To the cheering crowd he was an avenging specter from the highlands.

The primordial thunder deflated to an expectant hum as the crowd awaited the appearance of the World Champion. Behind a steel door four men waited: Johnny Knight, Bo, Luke, and a young man named Alf. As always, Luke would minister to Johnny’s body while Bo attended to the fighter within. Alf was a local lad recruited to do the scut work, to haul buckets, bottles and other equipment into and out of the ring. He was a pimple-faced boy-man of nineteen, a part-time laborer and full-time angry young lout from the gutters of Soho. But he was honored to assist a genuine World Champion, no matter what that champion’s color. Despite their racial, cultural, and age differences, Bo had an unexpected feeling of kinship with Alf; after hiring him, Bo had felt relieved of an obscure burden.

The steel door swung open. A harsh, surrealistic glow illuminated a narrow path through the teeming crowd; a path lined by Bobbies armed with nightsticks. The hum of the crowd again became thunder.

Bo and Luke exchanged uncertain glances, and then looked to Johnny. To Bo’s relief, Johnny seemed unaffected by his surroundings. He appeared bored. Bo took heart from this, hopeful that Johnny’s peculiar attitude would be misinterpreted by the opposition and unnerve them. But as they approached the ring he saw something he had never seen before in all of his years in the fight game.

In the center of the ring, robeless and alone, stood Kenny Douglas, his feet planted firmly on the canvas, his arms folded across his chest.

He stared right at Johnny and his attitude stated that the ring was his domain, that Johnny would soon receive a well-deserved beating for having the gall to intrude.

Damn good psych job, Bo admitted ruefully to himself while he helped Johnny into the ring, damn good psych job. But when he turned and faced Kenny Douglas again, Bo suddenly felt cold and sick. The fighter still maintained his posture of menace, but what Bo saw in Kenny Douglas’s eyes was even more disturbing: instead of controlled fear and bravado, Bo saw the cold, implacable gaze of a serpent. This ain’t no psych job, Bo realized, this bastard’s crazy. At that moment Kenny placed one foot behind the other and, with his arms folded across his chest, executed a crisp about-face. He let his arms fall and walked slowly away to his corner.

The crowd grew increasingly restless as anthems were played and former world champions introduced. Finally, five men crowded the center of the ring: the fighters, their managers and the referee, a little man from Panama who gave instructions in an accented, self-consciously precise voice. Kenny Douglas stared at Johnny with the calm, implacable menace Bo had seen moments before. Johnny stared blankly past Kenny as if he weren’t there, but Johnny’s apparent lack of fear seemed to mean nothing to the other fighter. Despite the heat, Bo shivered.

The two fighters went to their corners. In the center of the ring the little Panamanian stood and glanced from one fighter to the other. Outside the ring, Bo rested his arms on the edge of the canvas. He interlaced his fingers as if he were about to pray. His throat constricted, his stomach became icy cold. The bell sounded. As the referee scurried crablike out of their paths, the fighters approached each other.

Johnny danced on his toes in an orthodox stance; Kenny Douglas plodded toward him. Douglas’s gloves hid his face, his arms protected his body; hunched over and stalking, he resembled a machine bent on destruction. Johnny threw a couple of quick left jabs and circled to his left. The jabs bounced harmlessly off Douglas’s gloves. Johnny danced a circle around the ring, followed by a stalking Kenny Douglas. Suddenly Johnny reversed his direction, closed with Douglas, and threw a left jab to the head followed by a left hook to the body, then a straight right to cover his retreat. All three punches were blocked by Douglas’s gloves and arms. At ringside a solemn concentration came to Bo’s face. Kenny Douglas was slow on his feet, just as advertised, but he didn’t look at all like the wild brawler he was supposed to be. His defense was damned disciplined and seemed almost impenetrable.

During the next minute of the round Johnny threw ten left jabs. Only two penetrated Douglas’s defense and those landed squarely on top of Douglas’s skull, which had put Johnny at risk of breaking his hand. At that point in the fight Kenny Douglas had yet to throw a single punch. The roar of the crowd had risen to a painful shriek of frustration.

Then it happened. Douglas lunged forward, causing Johnny to reverse his direction, only to find Douglas moving right with him. Douglas threw a straight left which flashed between Johnny’s gloves, landed flush on his face, and sent him backpedaling into a corner. Douglas bulled Johnny into the ropes and slammed a vicious left hook into his ribs. Douglas’s following right only grazed the side of Johnny’s head, but when Johnny tried to tie him up, Douglas leaned into him and threw a series of punishing body blows.

At ringside Bo flinched as if he were being hit. He cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed: Turn him! Turn, turn, turn! Primordial thunder swallowed his words, but he screamed anyway, implored, prayed, tried to send his will into Johnny.

In the corner, Johnny lunged to his left then to his right while he shoved Douglas’s left shoulder and suddenly their positions were reversed. Johnny danced away to the relative safety of the center of the ring. The crowd sighed its satisfaction; the fight they had come to see had finally started. Bo sighed his relief at Johnny’s escape, and then yelled Stick and move! Stick and move! While he watched Kenny Douglas resume his pursuit of Johnny, Bo felt a chilling dread. Douglas’s punching power hadn’t been exaggerated; every punch he threw was a bomb.

Douglas was no longer content to follow Johnny around the ring; he moved relentlessly forward, then sideways, cutting off the ring, forcing Johnny to work hard to avoid being trapped in the corners. Finally, after what had seemed like an hour to Bo, the bell sounded, ending round one.

In Johnny Knight’s corner Luke massaged Johnny’s ribs and studied his fighter’s face for signs of pain. Johnny’s expression remained impassive. Luke applied an icebag to Johnny’s head and neck and nodded at Bo, who then knelt in front of the fighter. Okay, Johnny, my man, Bo said, you doin’ jus’ fine; you ahead already. Jus’ keep yo’ fist in his face an’ don’t let him get started. Judges over here love shit like that! Bo peered into Johnny’s eyes. You hearin’ me, Johnny? You understan’ what I’m sayin’? Johnny nodded. Bo continued: "Now, Johnny, I want you to do the same this round . . . but, this time, I want you to move him around so I can study him. You hang that left in his eyes and dance; you make him move. You hear? Johnny nodded. But one thing, Johnny . . . don’t try to back him up! Don’t close with him! We don’t give a shit about backin’ him up, not just yet. You got that?" Johnny nodded again.

A warning buzzer sounded, and Bo and Luke helped Johnny to his feet while Alf snatched the stool and buckets from the ring. The bell sounded, starting round two.

Johnny Knight danced out of his corner; Kenny Douglas rolled out of his like a tank. They met in the center of the ring