Billy Miske stood center ring, still light on his feet even after twelve grueling rounds, and pounded his fists into the ribs of Johnny Howard, a man that was now regretting every minute he decided to rest rather than train. Billy drove him with each blow back toward the corner where Don Parker stood, pounding on the canvas. Dust stirred up and around Don’s hand every time he smacked his palm down. Sweat and blood rained down on him as the two fighters reached the corner.

The Brooklyn fights were always bloodiest for some reason and they brought out the animals. The crowd was on their feet, shouting, jeering, crying for blood, and crying for a knockout. Don checked his stopwatch then leaned through the ropes, his face contorted into a rage.

“Twenty seconds!”

Howard slammed his back against the post and grunted. Don stepped back and away from the ring and watched as Howard hunched and covered the best that he could, but Billy was too powerful. Howard was hamburger and he knew it.

Billy wedged Howard into the corner, beating him without mercy. With each slam of Billy’s fists, Howard grunted and gasped. No matter where he put his gloves, Billy found an opening and Howard was growing frustrated.

“Send him home, Billy!” Don shouted. “Send him home!”

Billy stepped back and in a half-second, picked his target then pounded a heavy combination onto Howard’s head and body. Howard tried to duck, he tried to cover, and he tried to last the longest twenty seconds of his life. If he was going to make a move, he had to do it soon. The only way he could win this fight was by a knockout and with each second that ticked, he grew more desperate.

Billy saw an opening as Howard raised his gloves to get a glimpse of his untamed attacker. It was a decision he would regret a split second later. Billy angled his body, dipped his shoulder and delivered an uppercut, catching Howard square on his jaw.

Howard’s teeth gnashed and his jaw dislocated. A rush of heat hit his face and his neck stiffened. He saw Billy grow taller in the closing darkness. The floor dropped from underneath him and Howard tried to reach out, but his arms were heavy, as if a thick chain pulled them downward.

Billy watched Howard crash to the mat in a crumpled heap of tenderized meat. He knew Howard was done. He saw it in his eyes, glassed over and individually darting around the room. The referee moved in, pushing Billy back and began the count.

“One, two, three, four,” the referee continued as Billy stood center ring, breathing hard, sweat glistening off his chiseled body, glaring at his opponent. Blood ran down from his brow along his face and dripped on the mat.

“Seven, eight, nine, ten!” the referee shouted. Then he waved Howard out just as the bell rang.

Billy raised his hands in victory and the corners spilled into the ring to check on their fighters. Flashbulbs popped as reporters, most of them from New York, snapped pictures of the victor. Don ran to Billy’s side and wrapped his arms around him.

“That’s the way, kid!” That’s the way!”

The crowd cheered, satisfied that blood had been spilled and their favorite fighter stood, arms raised in a V. Billy smiled and waved then he caught the eye of one reporter standing ringside with a pencil in his mouth and his notebook tucked under his arm, clapping then giving Billy the thumbs up.

It was George Barton and he was one of the few reporters not from New York that was covering the Miske/Howard fight, a light heavyweight bout that the winner would use to climb to a championship contest. He was from St. Paul, Minnesota and he was especially interested in Billy Miske for three reasons: one, he was a rising star; two, he was his friend; and three, Billy Miske was a hometown hero.

The announcer stood center with a megaphone in his hand. He checked the scorecard.

“Winner by knockout in the twelfth round, Billy ‘The Saint Paul Thunderbolt’ Miske!”

The crowd showed their approval as flashbulbs popped and Billy, a mere twenty-two years old, waved his appreciation.

The dressing room was not that nice, but it was better than the last joint where Billy fought. The rooms, along with the arenas, if you could call them that, got better with each new fight he won. Soon, he would fight for the belt and leave the dives in the past.

Billy adjusted his necktie in the mirror. He checked the bruises on his face and made sure the band-aid that covered the cut above his brow was sticking well. The cut reminded him not to get careless in the ring, even when dominating.

Howard got a lucky shot in the sixth, causing the cut. It was nothing, really, but it made Billy angry and from then on out, Howard was nothing but a punching bag. He could have knocked him out earlier, but Billy dragged the fight on per Don’s instructions. As Don put it, you got to let them know you can go the distance, too. That was something that Billy had not proved in his fighting career up to now. He was a knockout fighter and he believed in ending the punishment quickly, if not painlessly.

Don barged into the room holding a thick envelope in his hand. He smiled and waved the envelope then said, “Boy, you knocked ‘em dead tonight, Billy! Knocked ‘em dead!”

Don was a short man, not too thick around the waist, and he loved a good fight. He was in his sixties and was luck, one day, when he just happened to walk through the Y.M.C.A on Fifth Street in downtown St. Paul as Billy tried talking some hapless fighters into a sparring match. No one took him up on it. Finally, Don said he would pay five dollars to the fighter that knocked the cocky kid out just to shut him up. That was in 1914. Now, two years later, Don kept that five-dollar bill stashed in the crook of his wallet as a memento.

“You keep setting them up and I’ll keep knocking them down,” Billy said with a grin.

Billy was Don’s golden goose and he loved it. He pulled a silver flask from his coat pocket then said, “I’ll drink to that.” He took a snort off the flask then offered it to Billy. Billy waved him off then smoothed his hair back with his hand. Don took another snort then stuffed the cash filled envelope into Billy’s inside coat pocket. Billy looked down at the bulge in his coat pocket and said, “It almost don’t seem fair, does it?”

“Yeah, well life ain’t fair.” He then took a long draw off the flask, getting every drop before putting it away.

“How about we go out and see the city?” Don said.

“I’m heading out with George.”

“Chorus girl?”

“Singer, Don. Singer”

“Yeah, sure. Singer.”

A crooked smile crossed Billy’s face and he said, “You can come along if you like.”

“No. I’ll let George be the only extra wheel, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Billy said. He then turned to face Don, straightened his suit jacket, and said, “How do I look?”

“Like a pig with lipstick.”

Billy laughed and headed for the door.

“You know how to make a guy feel special. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

Billy opened the door and walked out.

“Don’t give her your all!” Don shouted after him. “Save it for the ring, kid!

New York summer nights were something to behold in the city. It was always hot, the heat held close to the ground by every inch of concrete in the urban jungle. The streets bustled with activity, especially down in the theater district along Broadway Avenue. Foot traffic flowed like a river down the sidewalks; the glaring marquees highlighted the night’s featured performers, musicals, and plays. Tourists gawked at the towering skyscrapers and New York fashion. Street hustlers mesmerized them with their fast talk and no holds barred sales pitches. The city was more alive during the summer months than any other time of the year.

A yellow taxi sputtered to a stop outside of the Hammerstein Olympia Theater on Longacre Square, between 44th and 45th Street. The theater’s massive gray stoned structure dominated the block and was the most imposing building in all of Broadway. Billy and George jumped out of the cab and Billy paid the fare.

“Come on, Billy,” George said. “How about we go and get some beers?”

“Culture, George. Culture.”

George was nine years Billy’s senior, but that did not stop Billy from acting as if he knew more than George did at times. As a reporter for the Minneapolis Daily News, he saw it all. He worked the sports beat, covering everything from horse racing to boxing. He liked the action that sports brought. He hated the charade of the theater and thought of it as too melancholy for his tastes; so did Billy up until a year ago.

“Why do we always end up here?” George said as they stepped up to the box office window.

“Two, please,” Billy said. “I like the theater, George.”

“You pull that trigger yet?”

Billy ignored George and they walked through the doors.

The theater was packed and Billy and George shuffled their way down a row, begging forgiveness as they accidentally stepped on a toe or two. Billy wanted to be close enough to the stage for a good look, but far enough away that they did not need to arch their necks to watch. The theater was dark, but for light coming from the stage that allowed glimpses in the breaking shadows of its French Renaissance décor. A juggler, the amazing something or other, finished to a splatter of applause as Billy and George sat down.

“A two-bit juggler?” George said.

“Just in time,” Billy responded.

The curtain closed as the emcee for the night, a tall thin man whose clothes were a tad baggy, checked a slip of paper he held in his hand. He wore a straw boater hat and the lights made him look pale. He barked rather than spoke.

“All right! How about that, folks? Let’s hear it one more time! Good show! Good show!”

The audience half-heartedly applauded and the emcee cleared his throat in preparation of announcing the next act. Billy nudged George and wiggled his eyebrows. George rolled his eyes and leaned back as he took off his hat and fiddled with the inside band.

“Now a special treat!” the emcee barked. “Back by popular demand, Miss Marie Preb... Prebalick!”

The emcee slinked off the stage as the curtain opened and the orchestra pit oozed into a smooth melody. Standing aglow in the spotlight was Marie Prebalick, her hair was dark and her eyes were bright. She held her hands tight against her stomach then moved closer to the edge of the stage and began to sing “How to Marry a Pretty Girl”.

Billy inched forward in his seat, his eyes fixed on Marie. George sat uninterested, fiddling with his hat. Marie hit a high note and Billy smiled. He looked back at George, noticed he was not paying attention, and slapped him on the knee. George slapped Billy back with his hat then gave Marie his undivided attention. Billy felt every note that Marie sang.

After the show, Billy and George stood in the lobby as audience members poured out of the theater around them. George lit his pipe and tipped his hat to a couple of ladies that ignored his gesture. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

“Not so bad,” George said. “Not the greatest show, but you get what you pay for.”

“Hm? What?” Billy looked past the exiting patrons and into the theater.

“I said it wasn’t that bad of a show.”

“Yeah, sure,” Billy said, still not really paying attention.

George puffed on his pipe. “I’m thinking of becoming a dancer, Billy.”

“Yeah, dancing is good.”

“Ballet mostly. All the times you’ve dragged me here inspired me.”

“That’s great, George.”

George furrowed his brow, puffed a cloud of smoke around his head then nudged Billy’s shoulder.

“What?” Billy said.

“I said ballet. I’m going to be a ballet dancer.”

“What the hell are you talking about, George?”

“What am I talking about? Nothing!”

“You know a little culture wouldn’t hurt you now and then.”

“I get plenty of culture. Like this one time in St. Louis, I saw the prettiest dancing girls. Don’t tell Kathryn, though. She’ll have my skin as a rug.”

Billy smacked George’s arm and said, “Will you cut it?” George held back a smile. “Say, George, I’m going to go backstage.”

“I’ll wait.”

“I won’t be long.” Billy excused his way against the traffic of the crowd exiting the theater.

Backstage, he wound his way in and out of the shadows through props, stagehands, and ropes. As he rounded a corner, Billy came upon a group of chorus girls smoking and gabbing about the night’s performance.

“Hi ya, girls.”

A young blonde-haired girl barely out of high school, if she finished that is, beamed a ruby red-lipped smile and said, “Well, if it ain’t the Thunderbolt! She’s in there, slugger.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Anytime, bruiser.”

He nodded to the other girls and continued past them, hearing some of them whisper what a dream he was. Billy turned and gave them a sly glance and winked before he stopped outside of a dressing room door with the number two painted on it. The girls eyed him up and down then giggled. Billy knocked on the door.

Marie sat at her vanity, touching up her lipstick in the mirror when she heard the knock. She spotted Billy in the audience during her set. He was easy to find as he sat in his usual row whenever he was in town. He was also the only one shushing people around him whenever she performed. She did not have the heart to tell Billy that the shushing was more of a distraction than the actual talking. Besides, Marie liked that he thought he was helping her. It was, she thought, adorable.

“Come in,” Marie said.

The door opened and Billy stood there and smiled and said, “Hello, darling.”

Marie’s heart jumped and she spun around in her seat to look at him properly. She looked up at him through her long eyelashes, that impish smile of hers doing something to him. It always did something to him and she knew it. Marie leaned back in her chair and in a soft cool voice said, “I was beginning to wonder.”

He stepped inside, shut the door, and removed his hat. Billy liked that it was as if they were meeting for the first time each time.

He leaned against the wall and said, “Well, you can stop now.”

Marie noticed the band-aid above his brow and said, “Cut yourself shaving?”

Billy reached up and touched the band-aid then smiled and shrugged.

“What, did you have your eyes shut?”

“I was in a hurry.”

Marie stood as Billy approached her and they grabbed each other in a tight embrace, pressing their bodies together, feeling each other breathe.

“Oh, I missed you, Billy.”

“I missed you, too.”

Billy caressed her cheek then gave her a long and soft kiss. Her lips tasted like berries and she smelled like fresh flowers. He listened to her inhale deeply as they kissed and he watched her as she closed her eyes. He always watched her close her eyes. Billy slid his hand down her back then moved his cheek to hers.

“Whataya say? Dinner?”

Marie eased from his embrace and said, “I have another show in thirty minutes. No time.”

“A pretty girl like you should have nothing but time.”

She did her best to hold back a smile. Billy was big, he was strong, his face swollen and his eyes narrow, but his heart was soft. Someone knocked on the door, interrupting their moment.

“Ten minutes, Marie!”

“Will you wait for me?” Marie said as Billy leaned against the wall.

“I got George out front.”

“Hm, George. I guess he’ll have to do.” She smiled and Billy laughed. “Come back tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” Billy kissed her on the cheek and said, “God, you look great.”

He then turned and walked out and Marie had a breathless moment as she watched Billy slowly shut the door, never taking his eyes off her for a moment, and the door shut, and Marie breathed.