“I’m no dream.” The visitor reached into one of his coat pockets and brought out something dark and glinting. “Carlo, I think you’re just exactly the man I want, but I need to know one more thing. Can you handle one of these?”

Carlo looked down at the gleaming metal object in his visitor’s hands. “A gun? Yes, of course. I fought for America in World War Two. I need gloves. Why will I need to use a gun?”

The visitor smiled again. “Come to think of it, you won’t.” He aimed and pulled the trigger.

The blast hammered Carlo’s ears and fire tore through his chest.

For a moment he could not move. He just stared uncomprehendingly at his visitor. Then he looked down at the hole over his heart.

Blood pooled slowly out of the hole. A hole in his best shirt . . . it was so hard to get bloodstains out of clothes, and there would be the hole to sew up. And another in the back of the shirt, where he felt more wetness and pain.

He looked at the man with the gun. “Why you do this?”

“Hush.” The visitor brought the barrel of the automatic to within an inch of Carlo’s forehead and fired again.

The old man looked down at the body of Carlo Salvanelli. Satisfied that no life remained, he wriggled back out of the box and stood.

His two men waited a few yards off. Phipps, the small one, a mere four inches above six feet, stood in the alley’s patch of moonlight. The big one kept back in the ­shadows.

Phipps stepped forward, looming solicitously over the old man. “You okay?”

“Of course. I enjoy doing this sort of thing from time to time. Good for the constitution.” The elderly gentleman pocketed his gun, then reached up to straighten Phipps’ collar. “Though we should leave now. You just can’t count on the police not to come. Now, you’re sure about this other one?”

The small one nodded. “I had the meter out and on her for four or five minutes. She’s a good, strong signal. But as far as I’ve been able to determine, she really was born here.”

“Then I don’t think she’ll join poor Carlo right away. I may need to send her home for study first.”

The three moved away down the alley, leaving Carlo Salvanelli alone in the box that served him as home.

Harris Greene sat on the stool in his corner and concentrated on keeping his war-face on. It wasn’t easy; dizziness and weariness tugged at him, and Zeb was talking. Talking and talking.

“Dammit, Harris, you’re being too predictable. The same combinations over and over. Mix it up more. He’s onto your backfist; forget about it. Work on his gut. I think he’s still hurting from the Helberson fight. And watch out when you close with him. When you make the transition between your range and his, in or out, that’s when he’s nailing you.”

Harris accepted a mouthful of water from the trainer’s bottle, then swallowed it instead of spitting. He stared for a long moment at the PKC banner on the auditorium wall, at the crowd that had shouted for his blood just a few minutes ago, and he turned to look at Zeb. “I’m going to lose,” he said.

Zeb Watson stared back at him, hard-eyed. Black, bearded, intense, he’d once been a fighter and could still project the attitude. His gaze was like a knife raking at Harris’ face. “No, you’re not. You can take him. You have more than he does. Just do what I say and stop thinking so much!”

The warning whistle sounded. Zeb cursed, slipped the plastic guard back into Harris’ mouth, and slipped out of the ring. Harris rose. The bell sounded, announcing the fifth round.

Harris got underway, resumed his erratic up-and-down, right-and-left motion, and headed toward the Smile again.

It took only a few moments. Walters switched tactics, went on the offensive, drove Harris into a corner. Harris blocked the blows coming in at his ribs, saw an opening, and automatically threw his backfist again. He felt Walters draw away from him.

Walters, still in retreat, caught the backfist on his left glove, then kicked high. His foot slammed into Harris’ temple, a blast of pain as sharp and distinct as a cymbal crash from a symphony, and Harris watched through gray fog as the canvas rose up to slap him.

Cheers rolled over him. The crowd loved it. Damn them.

He got up. It took a while. The referee talked to him, and Harris didn’t understand his words. Maybe it wasn’t English. Maybe he was just concentrating too hard on staying upright to make sense of his speech. Then the referee went away and the crowd roared again.

Harris saw Sonny Walters dancing around, his arms high. The Smile had won. The Smile had been right all along. Harris headed for his corner. The faces there weren’t smiling.

It took Harris a long time to tie his shoe. There didn’t seem to be any reason to do it faster. And this way he didn’t have to look up, to stare into disappointed faces.

Zeb sat on the locker-room bench in front of him and cleared his throat. “Harris, I think we’re done.”

“Okay. I’ll see you Monday.” Good. Just leave. Don’t make me look at you.

“No, that’s not what I mean. I think you and I are done. I can’t work with you anymore.”

Finally Harris did look up, into Zeb’s sympathetic, set expression. “What do you mean?”

“Harris, why did you get into kick-boxing?”

“Same reason you did.”

“No, tell me.”

Harris thought back. “Two Olympics on the tae kwon do team. I didn’t take any medals, but hey, I was a kid for the first one. Everybody seemed to think I could go all the way. Be a champion. That’s what it was. I wanted to be a champ.”

“Wanted.”

“Want. I still want it.”

“I don’t think so.” Zeb sighed. “Harris, you are a champion . . . in practice. In training, nobody can match you. You’ve got more speed and power than anyone your size. But when it turns into a competition, when the fight ­becomes real, you just fold up.”

Harris felt a lump form in his throat as he realized Zeb meant it. “You’re really cutting me loose, aren’t you?”

“As a fighter, yeah. That’s business. I need to manage fighters who are going to have careers. That’s not you. But I’m not cutting you loose as a friend.”

“Thanks.” Harris looked back at his shoe. He pulled the knot out and began tying it again.

“Are you seeing Gaby tonight?”

“Yeah. We’re having dinner.” Great. He’d have to tell her, too. Gaby, you know how I don’t exactly have a job? Well, I just got fired anyway.

“Are you two serious?”

“Yeah.”

“You going to marry her?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Harris heard the silence stretch out, felt the awkwardness grow between them. He ignored it, not letting Zeb off the hook. By millimeters, he adjusted the size of the bow in his shoelace.

Finally, Zeb held his hand out.

Harris looked at it a moment, then took it. “Okay, Zeb.”

“You going to be all right?”

“Sure.”

“You might think about teaching. Lotta schools out there would be happy to have you.”

“Sure.”

“Give me a call.” Zeb left, looking nearly as gloomy as Harris felt.

Two Olympic appearances down the toilet.

What the hell. His life wasn’t over. He had a great girlfriend and a pair of well-tied shoes.

Gaby was waiting for him on the sidewalk outside the Chinese restaurant. He spotted her from the corner across the street and took an extra minute just to watch her, as he always did when he had the chance.

She was an Aztec princess by way of Elle magazine. With her high cheekbones and blacker-than-night hair, she took after her Mexican mother more than her Irish-American father. She wore jeans and a simple red silk blouse with confidence enough to suggest that she surpassed the dress code of the island’s trendiest club. At this distance, he couldn’t see her eyes, but he knew the way they looked at everything, focusing on this and dismissing that with intensity and razory speed.