[continued]

The night was damp, and the docks slick as Lasiter drove up behind the warehouses. He could feel Sugar's breath beside him as she smoothed down her dress. "I really appreciate your concoin Mistah Lasitah. If anything happens to the Champ out there, I don't know what I'm going to do.."

“Concern?” Snorted Lasiter, turning off the ignition. “Listen, dollface, I’m no St. Jude. When you dangle the image of Molly Brennan before me, concern is number last on the list of things I’m thinking about. I don’t do charity work. This is strictly a business partnership, understand? I find a way to get Knuckles to forget his beef with your boy and move on to the next victim, ideally allowing your guy’s limbs to remain attached to his torso and in a relatively unmaimed condition, and you tell me how to reach Molly. Deal done, file closed. You don’t come through with the payment, you can expect to get a personal call from my, er, collection agents. Got it?”

“Of couwas!” Sugar squeaked. “Whaddya think I am, a lousy reneger? You got me all wrong, Mr. Lasitah.” The detective watched skeptically as Sugar stared at him, anxiously biting her lip, then dropped her head into her hands. He waited for the sniffle – and there it was.

“Here come the waterworks,” he muttered to himself. He took a deck of Camels from his shirt pocket, shook one out, and lit it in one arc of motion. “Okay, Sugar, you can turn off the sprinkler system,” he said, exhaling at the roof of the car. “I know, I know, you don’t know how you got mixed up in all this. You’re just a sweet country girl from Springfield Falls who landed in the big city looking to be a star, and ended up making some friends who’ve got a few troubles.”

“Not Springfield Falls,” Sugar sobbed, “Ironwood Heights.”

“You fell in love with someone who’s been crossed and double-crossed a dozen times, played for a stooge, and now he wants to claim what’s his. Right?”

“You got it, Mistah,” Sugar said, some energy returning to her voice. “You musta been readin’ my mail.”

“Give me just the headlines,” Lasiter said. “We don’t have time for the full soap opera.”

“It’s like this, Mistah Lasitah. The Champ was a day-laborah, jack-of-all-trades, but everybody knew he could fight, see? They used to put him up against guys from the mill all the time, and people would make bets. These mill guys weh pounding steel all day, but the Champ took ‘em all down one aftuh anothah. He was un-de-feated. That’s when we started up – I was working at the gin mill next door to the plant, and they’d all come in after the matches and buy the Champ drinks. We would get to dancin’, and –“

“I said I didn’t need the details, babe. How’d he get mixed up with Mickey is what I want to know.”

“Well, Mickey came in one night to collect his protection, right? And got to talkin’ with the Champ. Next thing I know, he’s staked to fight the big boys at the arena. The whole thing was on the square and Champ kept winning. Mickey’s guy Tommy the Knees made book. But then something went wrong, Mr. Lasituh. Real wrong.”

Aw, come on. Just 'cause all y'all writer types are getting all kindsa writing gigs alla suddenly doesn't mean you can't get creative with a little workday MeCha noir, does it?

Sugar's eyes poured water like a broken faucet. "Ya see, Mickey got him up good-top names 'an all. Got so no one wanted to chance their guy, on account the Champ gettin' so good an' all. Mickey told Champ to take a fall on the Steelman match. That's not Champ's way, nosir, an' he told Mickey so. Didn't matter. Mickey told him to hit the mat, or...or they'd never find his body. He was so mad! Champ said, ain't no one gonna tell him to throw anything. Mah heart was sure scared."

She reached in her purse for a hanky, cheap lace around the edges. Dabbing her eyes, she took a deep breath, trying to compose herself.

"Mistah, the Champ went in to that fight, against Joe Steelman. And he fought square. I saw Mickey's face, an' it whan't good news. Champ got a knockout in the eighth round. Held his head high as he strutted from the ring, the crowd roarin' and hollerin'. But Mickey's face, Mistah Lahsiter, was pure death. I heard from the gin mill that Mickey put a lot of cash on Steelman, an' I can't stand it, he's gonna kill my guy!"

Lasiter looked away from the girl. "Always the same damn thing, different dame, different guy." Lasiter realized that his body should have been one of the weights holding down the dockpiles himself, but he learned early to get the dirt on the world to stay alive.

Lasiter sighed, looked at Sugar, and said quietly, "Okay, Sugar, let's get this done and over. My bedtime's at midnight, and my night light get testy if I come home late..."

Lasiter checked his gun and then escorted Sugar from the car. "Don't do anything I don't tell ya, hon. You do as you're told, and you AND your man will be outta this mess soon enough."