The Devil's Opera(96)
The other fighter was a bit taller than Hans, Simon saw when he climbed into the ring at the other end, though perhaps not as big overall. His red hair was like a flame atop his head, and when he grinned his front teeth were missing. There was a loud burst of applause and yells of “Go, Anse!” from a group of men in boots and buff coats standing at his end of the ring, and he raised an arm in salute.
“Fighting out of the red corner,” Herr Pierpoint began while Hans climbed up to the ring, “here is the premier fighter in Magdeburg today. He stands five feet nine inches tall and weighs two hundred thirty-five pounds. He is undefeated in his professional fighting career, with a record of sixteen wins and zero defeats, with fourteen of the wins coming by knockouts. Give it up for the Samson of Magdeburg, Hans Metzger!”
Pierpoint pointed to where Hans was stepping through the ropes, and the crowd exploded, roaring and cheering and clapping in a flood of sound. Simon stood up on the bench and yelled along with the rest of them.
Hans stood in the center of the ring and grinned, turning to each of the four sides and pointing to the crowd there, which resulted in even more cheering. It took a long time for the noise to die down.
* * *
“Interesting,” Byron said.
Gotthilf looking to his partner. “What?”
“The man’s no Muhammad Ali, but he’s certainly learned how to work a crowd.”
“What…” Gotthilf started to ask the obvious question, but just then the bell rang and the fight began. “Oh, never mind.”
* * *
Ciclope looked around as Pietro approached, whistling a song from the gutters of Venice—or what would pass for gutters among the canals of that city. He saw that his partner had a drawstring bag slung over one shoulder.
“So, what’s to do?” Pietro asked as he joined the little tête-à-tête.
“Herr Schmidt, here,” Ciclope jerked a thumb in the man’s direction, “has agreed to double our take of the payroll money.”
“Shh!” Schmidt said, looking around, then relaxing a bit when he realized still no one seemed to be close to them. The anger on his face was still very evident, however.
“That is very good,” Pietro said, slinging the bag to the ground and rubbing his hands together. “When do we get it?”
“I have the amount we originally agreed on here,” Schmidt muttered, shifting position a bit so they could see a bag behind him. “But it will take some time to get that much again. I can’t get too much too fast from any one person, or it could cause someone to start thinking and asking questions.”
“Fine. Give us that much, then,” Ciclope kicked Pietro’s bag forward and reached for the other bag. “We can wait for the rest…for a while.” His tone made it clear that it had best not take any longer than absolutely necessary.
Ciclope hefted Schmidt’s bag. It had a very satisfying weight to it, and emitted a clink when he shook it a bit. He handed it to Pietro, whose face immediately put on a very large grin. A thought crossed Ciclope’s mind, and he looked over at Schmidt from under lowered eyebrows.
“A word, Herr Schmidt.”
Schmidt glared back.
“We may not be master merchants like your august self, but we are not ignorant. We can count—quite well, actually—and we know how much we should be receiving in that bag. If the count is off by more than a handful of coins,” Ciclope focused a wolfish grin on the merchant, “why, we will have to come visit you.”
Ciclope let the silence broaden for a long moment.
“And we do know where you live.”
Schmidt’s face tightened. He stood motionless for moment, not saying anything. Finally, he just shook his head and pulled a small sack out of a pocket of his ragged coat and handed it to Pietro.
“Always nice doing business with a man who understands the realities of life,” Pietro cracked.
* * *
Simon watched keenly as Hans stepped up to face the Scot MacDonald. Gus slid over to sit by him.
“So, you are Hans’ luck?” the other fighter asked.
“Yah,” Simon replied, eyes on the action. “At least, that is what he calls me.”
“That’s good,” Gus said. “A fighter can be good, but he still needs some luck on his side.”
They both winced as the Scot unloaded a flurry of punches. Hans ducked some, and took the rest on his arms. After that moment, MacDonald stepped back and starting circling Hans, who circled in turn.
“The Scotsman is stupid,” Gus said.
“Why is that?”
“He is wearing those big heavy gloves.”
“The ones like mittens that Hans won’t wear?” Simon looked at the hands of the Scot, and sure enough, that’s what he was wearing.