“And my own prizefighters.”
Culp introduced Lee and Barry. They were well-knit men, with firm, elastic steps. Lee was tall and lean, Barry slightly shorter and twice as wide, and Culp would reap the benefit of training with different types.
“Did I hear somewhere you boxed for Yale?” Culp asked.
“I believe I heard the same about you.”
“Shall we go a couple?”
Bell took off his coat and shoulder holster.
Culp asked, “Do you have much occasion for artillery in the insurance business?”
“Violent swindlers are notable exceptions,” Bell answered, hanging his coat and gun on a peg. He stripped off his tie and shirt, stepped up onto the ring, ducked through the tightly strung ropes, and crossed the canvas into the far corner. Culp removed his coat, tie, and shirt and climbed in after him. “Do you need gloves?”
“Not if you don’t.”
“Put ’em up.”
Barry, who had been punching the heavy bag, and Lee, twirling the Indian clubs, watched with barely concealed smirks. Barry banged the bell with the little hammer that hung beside it. Culp and Bell advanced to the center of the ring, touched knuckles, backed up a step, and commenced sparring.
Bell saw immediately that Culp was very, very good, sporting a rare combination of bulk, speed, and agility. Though ten years Bell’s senior, he was extremely fit. Bell was not surprised. At the yacht club, Culp had bounded about the decks of his New York “Thirty” like a born athlete. What was slightly surprising was how determined the Wall Street titan was to give him a black eye. In fact, he seemed bent on it, swinging repeatedly at his head, to the point where it made him reckless. Frustrated by Bell’s footwork and impenetrable guard, he began unleashing punches that opened chinks in his own defense.
Lee rang the bell, ending the first round. They took a moment’s rest and went another.
In the third round, Culp threw caution to the wind and charged, using his bulk in an attempt to startle Bell into dropping his ground and hurling at him a mighty right. Had it connected, it would have knocked Bell through the ropes.
Culp tried the tactic again, and Bell decided to end it before things got further out of hand. He opened Culp with two swift feints of his left hand, then planted a light jab with the same left in Culp’s eye.
Unpadded by gloves, Bell’s knuckles took their toll, and Culp staggered backwards. His face darkened with anger, and he stepped through the ropes, holding his eye.
“Take over!”
The tall, lean Lee put down the Indian clubs and climbed into the ring.
Culp lumbered toward the door. “You’ll excuse me, I have to dress for dinner. Enjoy the facility, Detective Bell.”
“I wondered when you’d figure that out,” said Bell.
“Long before I saw your gun.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Now I know for sure what you’re up to.”
Culp laughed. “You won’t know your own name when these two get through with you. Go to it, boys.”
He whipped Bell’s holster off the peg and took it with him.
Lee put up his fists. “Shall we say fifteen rounds?”
“Or until you get tired,” said Bell.
“When he gets tired,” called Barry, “it’s my turn.”
At the end of five rounds, Lee said, “Something tells me you didn’t learn that footwork at Yale.”
“South Side,” said Bell.
Lee was breathing hard. So was Bell. Barry was watching closely, learning his moves.
“South Side of what?”
“Chicago.”
“Thought so.”
Barry rang the bell.
Lee backed slowly out of the ring after ten rounds. “Finish him.”
Barry swung through the ropes, feet light on the canvas floor, which was slick with Lee’s blood. “O.K., Chicago. Time for lessons.”
“You’ll have to do a lot better than your pal.”
“First lesson: A good big man will always beat a good little man.” Barry glided at him, fast and hard.
Isaac Bell was tired. His arms were getting heavy. His feet felt like he had traded his boots for horseshoes. His ear was ringing where he had caught a right. His cheek was swollen. No serious damage to his torso yet. Barry moved in, feeling for how tired Bell was.
Bell locked eyes with the bigger man and threw some feints to send messages that he was still strong and dangerous. At the same time, he forced himself to override the desire to move fast, which would tire him even more. Barry kept coming, jabbing, feeling him out. Suddenly, he tricked Bell’s hands up with his own feint and landed a left hand to the tall detective’s chest. The slim, long-armed Lee had thrown stinging punches. Barry hit like a pile driver. Bell forced himself to stand tall and hide the damage.
“Lee!” he called. “Come back.”
“What?”
“I’m getting bored. Why don’t you both get in the ring; we’ll make this quick.”
“Your funeral.”
Lee climbed in slowly, stiff, sore, and exhausted.
“Hey, Barry, give your pal a hand, he’s moving like an old man.”
Barry turned to help. Bell drove between them and somersaulted over the ropes.