Vampire Games

 

It took a few calls, a little waiting, a few more calls, and maybe a little begging to finally meet my next interview.



I met Ricardo Cortez at the Hard Rock Hotel's massive, central bar, where we sat across from each other and nursed our drinks. Mine was white wine. His was a beer. Both of our glasses were small. Around us were the sounds of money being won and lost. Mostly lost.



"You were the referee for the Baker/Marquez fight," I said.



He looked down into his beer. I suspected he often looked down into his beer for answers. That I quickly ascertained he was an alcoholic no longer surprised me. That I felt his overwhelming need and addiction to the stuff did surprise me.



It was almost as if I could reach inside his thoughts.



Almost.



Weeks ago, Hanner had told me that I could expect to start reading other minds - and not just those closest to me. And not just read.



Manipulate.



Jesus.



For now, I didn't want to think about manipulating another's mind - hell, it was all I could do to exist comfortably in my own.



Finally, Ricardo looked up from his beer. He said, "Yes."



"How long have you been a referee?"



"Eight years."



"Have you ever refereed a bout where a fighter was killed?"



Ricardo was a strong-looking Hispanic with what appeared to be the beginning of a tattoo under the right sleeve of his jacket. It looked like a snake tail. In fact, I was certain it was a rattle. We were mostly alone at the bar. Then again, the bar was so expansive that it was hard to tell where it ended and where it started. Nearby, a woman jumped up and down at the nickel slot machine. I think she'd just won a shitload of nickels.



Ricardo ignored the excited woman. Instead, he lifted his beer to his lips, and while he was guzzling he gestured for the waiter for another. Yeah, he was an alcoholic.



When he finally pulled away, he said, "That was my first death."



"Hard on you?"



"What do you think?"



"I'm thinking it was a shitty day for everyone."



"Yup."



The waitress set another beer before him, and Ricardo picked it up instantly.



I said, "Do you blame yourself for his death?"



"No one else to blame."



"What about the guy doing the punching?"



Ricardo shook his head. "It was my job to stop the fight before it gets to that point."



"Except it was a fluke punch. Everyone agrees. Most people think the fight was pretty even up to that point."



"No, it wasn't."



I blinked. This was new information. Investigators loved new information. New information meant that an investigator was onto something. I liked that.



"How so?" I asked.



Ricardo rubbed his face and I saw the scarring on his own knuckles. Ah, he had been a fighter himself. In fact, now I could see that his nose had undoubtedly been broken a few times. Probably not a very good fighter. Probably why he went into reffing fights instead of participating in them. Reffing was easier on the nose.



When he had collected his thoughts and had decided just how much to tell me - and how I knew this was beginning to trouble me - he said, "Caesar was not all there from the beginning."



"What do you mean?"



"Caesar looked, at least to me, that he'd already gone a round or two. Or maybe even three or four."



"Anyone else notice this?"



"Hard to say. I'm certain someone on his crew would have known."



"How could they miss it?"



"Easy to miss, unless you know what to look for."



"And you know what to look for?" I said.



"Of course. All good refs do. It's how we keep these guys from beating in each others' skulls."



"What do you look for?"



Ricardo was loosening up, forgiving himself, reminding himself that there might be more to this story than he knew. Again, how I knew this snippet of thought from him was seriously beginning to wig me out.



He said, "If you know a fighter, it's easier. Then you know their mannerisms. You also know how much punishment they can take."



"You ever work a fight with Caesar?"



"Yup. Two."



"And he was different from the get-go."



"Right. From the fucking get-go."



"What was he doing different?"



"Dazed. Slower than normal."



"Even though most judges scored it even?"



"I said slower than normal. Caesar Marquez was better than most. I even caught him staggering once or twice back to the corner. Not sure if anyone else had seen it."



"What did you think about that?"



"I thought that something was wrong."



"Enough to stop the fight?"



He shook his head and remembered the beer. He said, "I should have stopped it if I'd had any balls. I should have at least called called one of the doctors over. But..."



"But you just weren't sure."



He looked at me funny, as I had read his thoughts. "Right, I wasn't sure. There was no reason for his symptoms, after all. The fight had been fairly tame."



"But he was in trouble from the beginning."



Ricardo nodded. "Almost as if..."



He couldn't finish the sentence, and so I finished it for him. "Almost as if he'd been hurt before the fight."



Ricardo looked at me again. "Bingo."



"Hard to blame yourself for something like this."



"Hard not to, either. I should have stopped the fight."



"You did your best."



He shook his head, and kept on shaking his head even as he finished his second beer and held up his hand for a third.