1636 The Devil's Opera: Chapter Seventeen

    Gotthilf turned away from the shift sergeant’s desk and stepped over to where Byron was pouring a cup of coffee. “Sergeant Milich says Metzger works in Schardius’ warehouse most days. He also says Metzger beat the charge, and is out on the street. Metzger has been keeping a low profile ever since, except that he does fight in the bear pit pretty often.”

    Byron sucked at the coffee, and made a face. “This stuff isn’t any better than my mother’s coffee, and that’s pretty bad. So when’s the next fight?”

    Gotthilf smiled. “By coincidence, the sergeant says he may be fighting tonight.”

    His partner gulped the rest of the coffee down, shuddered, and said, “It’s rumble time, then.”

    Gotthilf shook his head at yet another strange American idiom, and followed his partner out the door.

    Simon walked with Hans out of the city, even beyond the exurb of Greater Magdeburg. He was uncomfortable outside of his streets, especially as it was drawing to full dark. It didn’t take long, though, before they arrived where they were going.

    “What is this?” Simon was mystified. All he saw was a big rectangular hole in the ground with timbers shoring up the sides and some bench seats around it.

    “It’s the bear fighting pit.”

    “Oh.” Simon had heard of it, too, but he’d never seen it before. Somehow he’d always imagined it would be larger and . . . grander. He became aware of an odor as they drew closer to it. “It stinks.”

    “Yah. Lots of blood spilled in that pit, soaked into the ground.” Hans chuckled. “Some of it even men’s blood.”

    “Dog fight two nights ago,” a stranger commented.

    “Fresh blood, then,” Hans said. Simon made a face.

    More and more people were arriving, all men as far as Simon could tell.

    “Hello, Herr Metzger,” someone said from behind them. Simon turned with Hans to find two men: one tall and one short.

    “Are you on the bill tonight?” asked the tall one. From his accent, he was an up-timer.

    “On the bill?” Hans replied. Simon was confused as well.

    “On the card. Are you fighting tonight?”

    “Who’s asking?” Hans sounded brusque to Simon.

    “Lieutenant Chieske of the Magdeburg Polizei, and my partner Sergeant Hoch.”

    “Oh.” Hans seemed taken aback. “I am at that, Lieutenant Chieske.”

    “Should be a good match, then,” said the short one, who was clearly a down-timer.

    “Yah, Sergeant Hoch. I will give the people their money’s worth.”

    The two men nodded to them and walked on. Hans watched their backs for a moment, spat and muttered something Simon couldn’t quite hear.

    “Who are they, Hans?”

    Hans looked at him with a sober expression on his face. “You know about the new Polizei?”

    “Yah.” Simon nodded.

    “Those two are part of it. In fact, they are mostly leading it, from what everyone on the street says. And they have got a lot of the street people and hard men nervous. They are sharp-eyed and, so far at least, incurably honest.”

    “Why are they here tonight?”

    “I don’t know. Probably heard about the fight and came to sniff around the edges like your Schatzi, looking for whatever they can find.”

    Simon chuckled at the image conjured in his mind by Hans’ words.

    A man approached whose pointed nose and receding chin reminded Simon of nothing of so much as a ferret. “Time to get ready,” he whined at Hans. Even his voice reminded Simon of a ferret.

    “Right. Come on, lad.” Hans led the way over to the pit and climbed down a ladder. When he got to the bottom he looked up at Simon. “Come on, now.”

    Byron saw someone he knew. “This way,” he threw over his shoulder to Gotthilf, who followed him through the crowd. “Todd! Todd Pierpoint!”

    An up-timer near one end of the pit turned. “Hey, Byron. What’s up?”

    “You just here for the fight?”

    “Naw, I’ve got a stake in this.”

    “How so?”

    “Tobias,” Todd pointed to a weasely looking down-timer who was walking with Hans Metzger toward the fighting pit, “he found a copy of Sports Illustrated that covered mostly boxing stories. Once he got someone to read it to him, he got ideas about starting a fight syndicate. Turns out there’s been some sort of bare knuckle fighting around these parts off and on for quite a while. Anyway, he started looking for someone to work with him on it. He got pointed my way, and here we are. I do some general training of fighters at Karickhoff’s gym, I referee, I put up some of the initial money, and I get half the profits.”

    “Wow. From one-time county welterweight champion to 1635′s own Don King. In a few years I’ll get to say ‘I knew him when . . .’” Byron grinned and ducked as Todd swung a lazy roundhouse at him. “So, you make much from the bets?”

    Todd’s smile disappeared. “You being a cop, are you asking officially?”

    “Not yet.”

    “Well, for the record, I don’t bet on the fights. Conflict of interest, see?” Todd’s head swiveled to find his partner. “Tobias, now, he might. He’s never said anything to me about it.” He looked back to the two policemen. “I haven’t heard of anyone making book on these fights. So far as I know, it’s just man to man here at the pit.” He spat. “And I hope it stays that way.”

    There was a moment of quiet, then Byron said, “What’s with the pit? I’d've thought you’d put a ring up.”

    Todd sighed. “You wouldn’t believe how change-resistant some of these people can be. It took me weeks to get the fighters to understand why a raised ring would be good. They’re used to the pit; they like the pit.” He shook his head. “I finally got them to agree to use it if we built it. Now I’ve got to get the money together.” Todd chuckled. “And it may not be square when it gets built. Might be more of a rectangle, like the pit is. Change-resistant, like I said.”

    “You got gloves and mouth protectors and everything going?”

    “Working on gloves. The fighters we’ve got mostly don’t like the big 16 ounce ones. I’ve had someone make up some of the padded 5 ounce martial arts style gloves that leave the fingers free, and some of the fighters have started using them.”

    “That include Hans Metzger?”

    “Yep. And some of the guys have started using pieces of thick leather for mouth protectors, too. That works okay, but I’d rather have rubber. I keep hearing someone’s bringing rubber in from overseas, but I haven’t been able to chase it down yet. That would be better.”

    Todd looked over Byron’s shoulder and waved.

    “Gotta go, there’s my cue. Watch the fight — it could be good.”

    Simon hadn’t dealt much with ladders in his short life; a one-handed man is at a bit of a disadvantage on one. Of course, a one-handed man is at a bit of a disadvantage everywhere, he thought to himself as he reached for the left pole. A couple of moments later he was standing on the floor of the pit, pleased with himself that he had managed to scramble down the ladder without knocking it over or falling off of it.

    He looked up to see two men coming down the ladder at the other end of the pit. One of them began taking off his coat, followed by his shirt, which he handed to the other man.

    Hans took off his own coat and folded it over one of the ladder rungs. His shirt went on top of it. His hat he dropped on Simon’s head, grinning as it settled on top of the boy’s ears. Then he dug a couple of leather gloves without fingers out of his coat pockets and tugged them on.

    Without the shrouding of his clothing, Hans’ body looked like a solid slab of muscle. His waist wasn’t much narrower than his shoulders, which were wide enough. He smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand a few times, shook his arms, then stood waiting.

    “What do I do?” Simon asked. He was nervous about being in the pit itself.

    Hans looked over at him and grinned. “Just stand in the corner out of the way and wish me luck. I will take care of the rest of it.”

    Just then another man came down the ladder at the other end of the pit and moved to the center. “All right,” he called out, in that distinctive up-time accent. “I’m Todd Pierpoint, and I’m the referee, the fight-master, for this contest. At this end of the pit, we have Hans Metzger.” Scattered cheers broke out. “And at the other end, we have Pieter Sokolovsky.” A couple of cheers and scattered boos. “This fight will be fought under the Markie of Cuiensberry rules . . .” or at least that’s what Simon thought was said. It didn’t make any sense to him. “. . . so there will be no biting, gouging, kicking, or blows below the belt. One infraction gets a warning. The second will stop the fight and give the win to your opponent. Do you understand?” Herr Pierpoint looked to Hans’ opponent first, and received a nod. “Do you understand?” Now he was looking at Hans. Hans nodded.

    “Good. This fight will be fought for ten three-minute rounds. The sound of the bell,” he pointed to someone in the crowd and a bell rang, “will start and end the rounds. There will be one minute between the rounds. Now,” Herr Pierpoint looked up at the crowd surrounding the pit, “the fight begins in two minutes.” There was a rush of noise as the crowd members cajoled and argued with each other as they made bets.

    Simon looked over at the other fighter. Sokolovsky was taller than Hans. His arms were longer, too. He looked soft, though; there was a bulge around his belly. Hans, by contrast, looked flat and hard. Stark Hans. The other fighter kept moving, picking his feet up and down, swinging his arms. Hans just stood there like a lump, waiting.

    The two minutes passed quickly. Herr Pierpoint stepped to the center of the pit. “Are you ready?” The crowd packed around the pit roared as the two fighters nodded. Simon backed into the corner of the pit. “Begin!” Herr Pierpoint pointed up at the crowd and the bell rang.

    Hans stepped forward, step, step, step, until he was close to the center of the pit. His opponent came forward at about the same pace. They started circling one another. Hans had his fists up in front of his face, Simon saw, elbows tucked in by his side. Sokolovsky was holding his fists in front of his chest with his elbows stuck out.

    Simon started muttering, “Come on, Hans . . . come on, Hans . . .” over and over. The crowd was yelling and screaming.

    The other fighter took a swing at Hans, a big wide looping swing of his right fist. Hans ducked the swing, stepped in while the other man was off-balance, and buried his own fist in Sokolovsky’s gut. Then Hans slammed his other hand to the other man’s ear. Sokolovsky was staggered, but manfully made a swing with his other fist. Hans ducked that one as well, then stepped back in to deliver another hammer blow to the gut.

    The rest of the first round was like that. Sokolovsky would swing, Hans would evade the blows, then provide a punishing hit or two. By the end of the round, there were red marks and the beginnings of bruises on the body and face of the other fighter, but Hans stood untouched.

    The bell rang. Herr Pierpoint stepped in between the two fighters and waved them to opposite ends of the pit. Hans came and stood by Simon.

    “So, what do you think so far?” Hans asked.

    Simon could barely hear him through the noise of the crowd. He was so excited he was bouncing on his toes. “You’re better. You’re beating him.”

    “Yah. This guy’s no good. I will put him out next round, watch and see.”

    The bell rang for the second round. Hans put his hands up and moved forward deliberately. This round he started the action by throwing a punch at the face of Sokolovsky. The other man tried to duck but wasn’t fast enough to evade it. It landed high on his left cheekbone.

    Hans gave Sokolovsky no chance to recover. One punch followed another, body, body, head, body, head. His outclassed opponent tried to fight back, but Hans would either evade his swings or he’d brush them aside.

    There was no retreat. The other fighter tried to step back and Hans stepped forward in pursuit. Always there was a punch coming, left, right, left. Simon could tell the other man was losing strength because his hands kept dropping lower and lower like he couldn’t hold them up.

    The crowd was still yelling when Hans put a fist in Sokolovsky’s gut one last time, then put one to his jaw. His opponent’s arms dropped straight down. He wavered, took one step, then stretched his length on the floor of the pit.

    The crowd went wild while Herr Pierpoint counted to ten. Simon didn’t understand why that was. But there was no mistaking the meaning when Herr Pierpoint lifted Hans’ hand above his head and pointed to him.

    Hans made a bit of a bow to each side of the pit, then walked back over to the ladder. Simon met him there with a huge smile on his face and handed him his shirt. After pulling the shirt on, Hans grabbed his hat and tousled Simon’s hair. “I told you, you are my luck. With you around, I cannot lose.” Simon’s heart swelled with pride, a most unfamiliar emotion. “Come on.”

    Simon followed Hans up the ladder, coping with the lack of a hand better going up than he had going down. He managed to step off the ladder without needing Hans’ offered hand.

    Hans slung his coat over his shoulder, laid his arm on Simon’s shoulder, and started pushing their way through the crowd. It was slow progress, as it seemed that at least every third man they encountered wanted to congratulate Hans on his win, or on how easily he’d defeated his opponent. Simon heard more than one voice murmur around them, “Stark Hans . . . Stark Hans . . .” One man even pressed some silver on Hans, saying that since he’d won his bet for him, he should share in the winnings.

    Simon noticed that Hans kept his eyes moving over the crowd. Just as he was about to ask him what he was looking for, Hans muttered, “There he is,” and steered them back toward the pit.

    They reached a place where Hans could reach out an arm and grab a man by the shoulder. When he turned, it was Ferret-face. Simon had to swallow a laugh when he saw the man again.

    “Tobias,” Hans said, “pay up.”

    “All right, all right,” the man whined. He pulled a roll of the new paper money out of his coat pocket and started counting bills into Hans’ palm. “One thousand dollars,” Tobias said, putting the now smaller roll back into his pocket. “Satisfied?”

    “Yah. Let me know when you have another fight lined up for me, after a week or so.” Hans tipped a finger to his brow as the crowd started clumping around the pit for the next fight of the evening.

    Simon tugged on Hans’ sleeve as they stepped away from Tobias. “How much is that in pfennigs?” he asked.

    “About ten Groschen, maybe a little more,” Hans replied.

    Simon’s head spun. Ten Groschen; one hundred twenty pfennigs. Hans was nearly rich, with what he had won yesterday at the arm wrestling, and now this! Simon had never seen so much money at one time. “How much does the other man make?”

    “A half of this, maybe a third.” Hans’ teeth flashed in his beard. “I don’t know. I have never lost.”

    There was someone waiting for them as they neared the edge of the crowd.

    “A good fight, Herr Metzger,” Lieutenant Chieske said.

    “Ach, it was a joke, lieutenant.” Hans hawked and spat. “That bum could not touch me. If Tobias does not find some better fighters, I will have to find something else to do. There is no fun in defeating the weak.”

    “Fun?” Sergeant Hoch asked. “You enjoy beating people?”

    Simon bristled at the sergeant’s tone. Hans turned and looked down to meet the shorter man’s eyes. “What I enjoy, Sergeant Hoch, is the contest — the matching of strength to strength, skill to skill, finding the best. Tonight . . . I take no joy in tonight. I ended the fight as quickly as I could.”

    “And it’s to be hoped that fool learns from his bruises and aches and pains not to do something like this again,” Lieutenant Chieske offered.

    “Or at least not until he has gotten a lot better at it,” Hans agreed.

    “Indeed. Well, good evening, Herr Metzger.” With that, the two policemen nodded and moved on.

    “So,” Simon said, amazed at the calmness in his voice, “now what?”

    “Now we go home to Ursula and let her know that her brother has won again.” Hans shrugged into his coat. “Let’s go.”

    Byron and Gotthilf turned and watched the fighter and his companion walk away into the darkness. “Sergeant Milich said he’s connected to Schardius?”

    “Yah. You think he can tell us what we want to know?” Gotthilf murmured under the crowd noise.

    “Maybe.” Byron tilted his head. “But it will have to seem like his idea. If he thinks we’re trying to make him do it, he’ll just clam up.”

    “Clam?”

    “Okay, you know what a mussel is . . .”