The Big Bout
The Big Bout
a Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Noir Novel Book 4
by Michael Lister
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Books by Michael Lister
(John Jordan Novels)
Power in the Blood
Blood of the Lamb
Flesh and Blood
The Body and the Blood
Blood Sacrifice
Rivers to Blood
Blood Money
Blood Moon
(Short Story Collections)
North Florida Noir
Florida Heat Wave
Delta Blues
Another Quiet Night in Desperation
(Remington James novels)
Double Exposure
Separation Anxiety
(Merrick McKnight novels)
Thunder Beach
A Certain Retribution
(Jimmy “Soldier” Riley novels)
The Big Goodbye
The Big Beyond
The Big Hello
The Big Bout
(Sam Michaels and Daniel Davis Series)
Burnt Offerings
Separation Anxiety
For Two Dear Friends:
Aaron Bearden
For collaboration.
For conversation.
For humor.
For music, movies, and books.
For friendship.
Dr. Dan Finley
World-Class Friend Question: Who is one of the most kind, caring, and generous friends the author of this book has ever had? He's a college professor, trivia master, and world-class friend. Can you name him? Dr. Dan
Thank you
Dawn Lister, Jill Mueller, Adam Ake, Micah Lister,
Aaron Bearden, Lou Columbus
Chapter One
“It’s tomorrow,” Lauren said.
It was how she greeted me each morning.
Having promised each other to be together tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow without knowing how many we’d actually get, each morning when she opened her eyes she softly spoke the two words as the wish-fulfilled they were with gratitude and perhaps just a little surprise.
She had just opened her eyes to find me lying on my side in the bed next to her, watching her sleep, listening to the sweet sound of her breathing.
“It is,” I said.
The room was cold, but the bed was warm, our naked bodies beneath the blanket radiating heat.
“How many does that make?” she asked.
“Thought we were going to take each one as it comes,” I said.
“I know, but . . .”
“Do you know what today is?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“It’s Christmas.”
“Is it?”
“Our first together.”
“Merry Christmas,” she said.
“Merry Christmas yourself.”
“This is the best Christmas ever,” she said.
She was right. We were both banged up pretty bad. We were in a small, cold hotel room because we had nowhere else to go. We were penniless. We had no prospects. We were facing a future that broke toward the bleak. But we were together, finally and forever, and it was the best Christmas by far I had ever experienced.
This past year had been a turning point in the war. Our victories in Stalingrad, North Africa, and Sicily were cause for hope.
Last night in each other’s arms, Lauren and I had listened to President Roosevelt’s Christmas Eve radio address.
Some of what he said still echoed in my ears.
“On this Christmas Eve there are over ten million men in the armed forces of the United States alone. One year ago, 1,700,000 were serving overseas. Today, this figure has been more than doubled to 3,800,000 on duty overseas. By next July first that number overseas will rise to over 5,000,000 men and women . . .
“But—on Christmas Eve this year—I can say to you that at last we may look forward into the future with real, substantial confidence that, however great the cost, ‘peace on earth, good will toward men’ can be and will be realized and ensured. This year I can say that. Last year I could not do more than express a hope. Today I express . . . a certainty, though the cost may be high and the time may be long . . .
“Within the past year—within the past few weeks—history has been made, and it is far better history for the whole human race than any that we have known, or even dared to hope for, in these tragic times through which we pass . . .
“Tonight, on Christmas Eve, all men and women everywhere who love Christmas are thinking of that ancient town and of the star of faith that shone there more than nineteen centuries ago. American boys are fighting today in snow-covered mountains, in malarial jungles, and on blazing deserts, they are fighting on the far stretches of the sea and above the clouds, and fighting for the thing for which they struggle. I think it is best symbolized by the message that came out of Bethlehem.
“On behalf of the American people—your own people––I send this Christmas message to you, to you who are in our armed forces: In our hearts are prayers for you and for all your comrades in arms who fight to rid the world of evil. We ask God’s blessing upon you—upon your fathers, and mothers, and wives, and children—all your loved ones at home. We ask that the comfort of God’s grace shall be granted to those who are sick and wounded, and to those who are prisoners of war in the hands of the enemy, waiting for the day when they will again be free.
“And we ask that God receive and cherish those who have given their lives, and that He keep them in honor and in the grateful memory of their countrymen forever. God bless all of you who fight our battles on this Christmas Eve. God bless us all. Keep us strong in our faith that we fight for a better day for humankind—here and everywhere.”
I carefully eased what was remaining of my right arm beneath Lauren’s neck, wrapped my left around her too-thin torso and slid toward her, even as I pulled her closer to me, her bare breasts softly pressing against my chest, her dark hair cascading down around us, and kissed her gently on her full, warm lips. Toes and tongues and sex touching.
Reaching down between us, she took me in her hand.
“It’s tomorrow,” she said.
“It is.”
“And it’s Christmas.”
“It is.”
“I
t’s time,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
We had waited. She had told me repeatedly that she was ready but she seemed so frail I was afraid I’d––
“I won’t break,” she said.
You’re already broken, I thought. We both are.
It was the first time we made love since we had plunged into the deep, dark abyss, since I had lost my arm, since she had gotten so sick, since we had lost and found each other over and over, since we had died and come back to life again.
Before she came back to me I thought I’d never be able to make love again––and not just because I had no desire to make love to anyone but her, but because of my injuries. Since she had, like Lazarus, returned from the grave to me, I had no doubt that if given the opportunity I would be able to demonstrate to her my great love for her.
Inside her I felt as I always did, as I did only when inside her, as if I were connected to all of creation and that I was meant to be.
She felt for me like the only home I’d truly ever have.
Back in October, Bing Crosby had recorded “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” for soldiers serving overseas, lonely young men longing to be with their loved ones. During the past month or so I had played the 78rpm Decca Records single over and over and thought of Lauren, thought of us, never dreaming we’d be together when Christmas finally came.
The song would forever be our song, and I could hear it as we made love.
Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
As I climaxed and fought the urge to collapse on top of her, she whispered, “Merry Christmas, darling.”
Later, lying in bed, her body draped over mine, she said, “I honestly didn’t think we were ever going to get to do that again.”
“Me either.”
“I think it’s better because of that.”
I nodded.
“God, I’m grateful,” she said.
“You?” I said, my voice rising. “Lady, let me tell you somethin’––”
The tap at the door stopped me.
Chapter Two
I waited. Only two people in the entire war-torn world knew we were here––Clip and the night manager––neither of whom should be knocking because both of whom were supposed to be out of town.
The tap came again. This time more insistent.
I slid out of bed and into my clothes, grabbing my gun out of its holster as I did.
Easing over to the door, I said, “Who is it?”
“A nigger and a Jap,” Clip said. “Let us in before we get our asses shot out here.”
“Merry Christmas, boss,” Miki said.
She was carefully carrying a couple of covered dishes.
Miki Matsumoto had big, black, shy eyes the shape of almonds beneath her bangs, a cute oval face, and flawless porcelain skin. The corners of her eyes were still slightly discolored, but most of the bruising, abrasions, and swelling was now gone.
Clip came in behind her, a huge smile on his face.
“Merry Christmas, Miki,” I said. “And I’m not your boss.”
Lauren was dressed and sitting up in the bed looking breathtaking.
“I cook Japanese Christmas dinner for you and Mrs. Lady Boss.”
“She insisted,” Clip said. “Knew y’all needed to eat. Kinda curious to see what a Japanese Christmas dinner look like.”
Lauren looked at me, her eyebrows raised, her face a bemused question mark.
I explained.
Miki Matsumoto was a beautiful Japanese teen who, after having escaped the Japanese-American internment camp near Manzanar with her family, had been abducted, beaten, and repeatedly raped while they were hiding on Panama City Beach.
I had found her and returned her to her mother and uncle, but she had shown up at my office a few days ago, cleaned it to within an inch of its life, and said she worked for me now.
“I am disgrace,” Miki said. “Defiled. No man want me but dirty old man. Family make me marry him. Say it only op . . .”
“Option,” Clip said.
“Op-tion for me now. But I not go back. I work for Soldier Jimmy now.”
“I’m Lauren,” she said, extending her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Miki. Miki Matsumoto,” she said, bowing slightly. “I be very good worker for your husband-san. Keep both eye on him for you. Help him help other poor soul like me.”
Lauren smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”
“Let’s eat,” Clip said.
We did––Miki and Lauren on the bed, Clip and I standing next to the chest of drawers.
The food was different than any I’d ever had, but was good and warming on the cold December day. It began with a paste-based soup that included a salty blend of soybeans, carrots, potatoes, and a few ingredients I didn’t recognize. We then had a small bowl of rice, followed by fish and vegetables.
Each of the others held their small bowls with one hand and ate with the other. I had to eat by placing my bowl on top of the chest of drawers and leaning down over it.
“This is very good, Miki,” Lauren said.
“It really is,” I said. “Thank you very much for feeding us on this cold Christmas morning.”
“It is for honor,” she said, and bowed slightly.
“She got the job?” Clip asked.
“I cook and clean,” Miki said. “I learn English and come good sec-re-tary.”
“Miki, your uncle and his men will be watching my office––and even if they weren’t . . . if anyone reported you . . . you’d be sent back to an internment camp. But mostly . . . I don’t even know that I’m going to reopen the agency or if I can even make a go of it if I did. Do you understand?”
“Lady Boss Lauren help Miki with . . . with dis . . .” She trailed off and looked over at Clip.
“Disguise,” he said.
He spoke to her more gently and with more patience than I’d ever heard him speak to anyone except his mom and sister.
“Disguise,” she said. “No one know I Jap bastard.”
We all laughed at that.
“And I help make you man much success. Save many like Miki.”
I looked over at Lauren.
She nodded and smiled. “Lady Boss Lauren is in.”
This time when Miki bowed toward her, Lauren bowed back.
“Nowa that settle,” Miki said, “we get to business down. We not bring lunch and new Jap bastard secretary but new case along for you.”
I looked over at Clip.
“You heard about that big boxing bout on the eleventh?”
I nodded.
On January 11, 1944––during the radio broadcast of the President’s State of the Union Address to Congress, a heavyweight bout with political, social, and title ramifications was being staged in an outdoor venue downtown at the foot of Harrison Avenue near the USO Club.
The plan was for the radio transmission of the President’s speech to be blasted through loudspeakers in and around the arena during the fight, and for the bout to raise money for the war effort.
“It a big deal,” he said. “Winner could get a shot at Joe after the war.”
"Joe" was Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber, who had been heavyweight champ since June 22, 1937 when he knocked out the Cinderella Man, Jim Braddock, in the eighth round in Chicago.
“You really think there will be an after to all this?” Lauren said.
“The challenger gettin’ death threats. Manager want to hire us to protect him and figure out who behind it.”
“Us?”
“You and me. Riley-Jones Detective Agency.”
I laughed. “How’s he even know about this non-existent agency?”
“Challenger my cousin.”
“Fighting Freddy Freeman is your cousin?” Lauren said.
“Well, we pretty sure we got the same daddy . . . so whatever that make us.”
Chapter Three
“That was very nice of you, Lady Boss Lauren,” I sai
d.
She smiled.
“What we’re doing to Japanese-Americans is dreadful. We can’t help everyone, but we can help her.”
I thought about how eager Miki was to be my sec-re-tary and it reminded me of July, the agency’s last secretary, who had been killed on the job. Was I setting up Miki for the same fate?
“I’ll help,” she said. “So will Clip. It won’t be like it was with July.”
I gave her a guilty smile.
“That is what you were thinking, isn’t it? I could see it in your eyes. Everything’s not on you. Not anymore. We’re together. We’ll face everything together. Me at your side. A full partner in this. In everything.”
I nodded.
“I mean it. I’m getting better every day. I’m gonna be able to pull my weight. I promise.”
“I know.”
“You don’t, but it’s true.”
“I believe you.”
“Soldier, we have each other. We have everything.”
“We do.”
“We have to help others have . . . if not everything . . . at least something.”
“We will.”
“We should start by riding over to Oak Cove and bringing Christmas cheer to Gladys,” she said. “She has no one.”
“We? You feel up to that?”
We drove out of the Cove, down Beach Drive toward Beck.
The world appeared abandoned, its inhabitants rounded up and removed. No cars. No people. No signs of human life at all. Of course, I knew it wasn’t the world nor even the entire town, but so complete was the Christmas cloistering that it felt like the vanishing applied to far more than just the street we were on.
On Beach we passed the huge house Lauren had shared with her husband Harry.
She looked away from it, casting her gaze across the street and out onto the cold, calm bay.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded slowly, lips pursed, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed in consideration.