"It's reported as 'gang-related violence." If either of them mentions this place, he doesn't make it out of the hospital. Maybe she doesn't either."

He paused for a moment, then added as if I'd asked for a justification, "He knew what could happen. He's got nothing to bitch about. If he didn't tell her the rules, that's his problem."

Oh, sure, I thought. Fine. All clean and tidy. If you made it sound any prettier, you could set it to music.

Grinning over my teeth, I muttered back, "I can see why you like it here. All this honest brutality probably makes you feel right at home."

Briefly his mouth twisted, but he didn't say anything.

The next instant I forgot all about Anson Sternway as the heavyset man rose from his seat.

Carrying his gear, my target climbed into the ring so easily that he practically wafted.

I wasn't sure, but I thought I caught a glimpse of consternation in the bouncer's eyes.

At once the room about went crazy as everyone with a spare buck scrambled to place bets. By the time the action around the bookies and punters subsided, the odds were 3-2 against the dragon tattoo. Which would've suprised me if I hadn't see that look in his eyes. Everything else about him proclaimed that he could stand up to a howitzer shell at point-blank range.

In a kind of nauseated suspense, I watched the goon pull on his hand- and foot-pads and turn to face the bouncer. On all sides of the ring, men hollered and whistled, brandished their fists and pounded the tables, as if they expected a blood bath. Two or three women raised their breasts like they were offering themselves as trophies.

I hated it, but I wasn't much better myself. My own lust squirmed in my stomach, throbbed in my bones. The heavyset man had something to do with Bernie's death, he could lead me to the killer, and I wanted him hurt damaged enough to make him docile.

The bouncer and my target didn't waste time posturing. Without warning they flung themselves at each other with a shock that made my guts lurch.

Right away the tattoo tried to grapple, secure a hold so that he could put his bulk to work. But the goon ducked under his arms and drove uppercuts into his ribs, rapid and staccato, a sound like pounding beef. Then the heavyset man danced clear.

If the bouncer were hurt, he didn't show it. Instead those uppercuts had shaken the consternation from his eyes. Now they bulged in the dragon's claws, porcine with rage, and a beast's predatory roar stretched his jaws.

His opponent's dull gaze suggested boredom. The goon carried his knuckled forehead and loose jowls with an air of weightless negligence, as if he already knew exactly how the fight would end.

The fighters jumped at each other again. The tattoo swung a wide punch that would've stunned a gorilla, but the goon surged inside the blow.

Before the bouncer could react, the goon delivered an elbow strike that rocked the bigger man's head, staggered him.

The crowd responded with a howl that made no distinction between approval and outrage.

Again the heavyset man eluded a grab and drifted away.

Snarling deep in his throat, the bouncer slapped himself hard a couple of times to clear his head. Then he went back to the attack. But this time he didn't charge. Instead he shifted a step or two from side to side as he advanced. He wanted to back his opponent toward the corner pole, trap him there long enough to get a grip on him.

An urge to cough rose in my throat tension, cigarette smoke, and heartburn working together. I fought it down.

My target let the bouncer herd him backward a few feet at a time until he was deep in the corner, hemmed in by the ropes. Blind intuition warned me that he was luring his opponent after him. If I'd been the bouncer's trainer, I would've screamed at him to retreat, keep to the center of the ring where he could maneuver. But his supporters didn't see what I saw or didn't care. The entire room squalled at him to press his apparent advantage.

Then the heavyset man struck his audience silent with an attack so sudden that it hardly registered on me until it ended. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he seemed to lift into the air, drawn upward by the rising force of his left knee.

And when he reached the apex of his jump, his right leg lashed out like the snap of a whip, catching the bouncer under his jaw and cracking his head back hard enough to splinter his spine.

Or someone's spine, anyway. Mine, for instance. The dragon tattoo rocked with the blow, staggered backward a step. But he simply had too much muscle to go down that easily.

Which the dull-eyed goon must've known. Without so much as a flicker of hesitation, he landed in a long crouch right knee compressed under him, left leg extended behind that dropped him below the bouncer's reach. In virtually the same motion, he drove forward again, heaving off the spring of his right leg to ram his left knee into his opponent's belly with the force of a sawed-off shotgun.

The bouncer doubled over with a gasp that seemed to expel every atom of oxygen from his lungs.

Now the heavyset man paused for a fraction of a second just long enough to adjust his position. Then he swung his thick right leg up in an arc around the bouncer until it stretched almost straight for the ceiling.

From there his heel slashed downward, hammering with all his weight and muscle behind it onto the base of the bouncer's neck.

The bouncer collapsed flat on the canvas as if every hard thing in his body had been smashed to jelly.

A spasm of coughing I couldn't control ripped through my throat hard enough to make my eyes tear. For a moment while I coughed I thought I saw the bouncer try to rise, jerked upward by the autonomic misfiring of his nerves. When I was able to blink my sight clear, however, I saw that he hadn't moved. Shallow respiration stirred him slightly. A couple of his fingers twitched the involuntary sign language of pain.

But he was out cold.

Around the room, people yelled hoarse triumph or disgust, but I ignored them. I already had enough disgust of my own and way too much alarm.

If Moy didn't get here soon, with enough men not to mention guns I might have to tackle the goon myself. Or let him walk away. And I was no match for him. Coughing tugged at my guts like Muy Estobal's bullet. If I went up against that thug alone, I wouldn't stand a chance.

I hadn't given the 911 dispatcher very good directions.

My target stood untouched by the noise like a man who didn't care what had just happened. After a minute or so while bettors counted their winnings or cursed their luck, another bouncer got into the ring to check on the dragon tattoo. With a little rough persuasion, the tattoo finally lifted his head, tried to lever his arms under him. The other bouncer offered to support him, but he shook off help and gradually worked his way upright one joint and muscle at a time. Staggering, he struggled between the ropes and down to the floor on his own.

From the tray of the nearest waitress, he grabbed a beer and chugged it. Then he shambled toward the back of the room as if he considered himself fit for duty.

He didn't once look at his opponent.

The heavyset man remained in the ring, but no one accepted his challenge. Still coughing, I watched him scan the room for a volunteer, but when he turned toward my table I ducked my head. If he hadn't recognized me yet, I didn't want him to do so now.

My heart lurched painfully when he said, "You. Big guy." Despite his battered face, he had a voice like slow silk, liquid and threatening.

"I don't like the way you look at me. Get up here."

I glanced aside at Sternway, but he concentrated on the goon. His face held no expression of any kind.

I nudged his arm.

"Moy isn't here yet," I breathed between muffled coughs.

"It's your turn. Challenge him. Keep him busy."

Sternway shifted toward me slowly, regarded me as if for a moment he'd forgotten I existed. Swallowing unnamed emotions, he asked, "That's who you spotted at the tournament? I didn't realize " Abruptly he leaned closer.

"Shit, Brew," he whispered, "that's Turf Hardshorn. This is the only place I've ever seen him.

"I don't know his real name. They call him "Turf because he always 'plants' his opponents."

The man in the ring said something I didn't hear. Probably a mortal insult.

"So challenge him already," I told Sternway tensely.

Earn the right to sneer at me.

"Are you crazy?" he retorted, still whispering.