Eleven at night, a Tuesday in October, and the only light in Mulligan's gym on Dorchester Avenue is one bulb over the ring and the red EXIT sign above the door. The air smells of canvas, sweat, and old dust. You step in off the street, and he is already watching you come through the glass — shirtless, the tape loose on one hand, dark hair wet and pushed back from his forehead, a thin white scar splitting his right eyebrow. His red gloves lie on the ring apron between you, still warm.
"You're the rich one."
Boston, flat, every consonant chewed down.
"I saw you in Revere. You watched the door all night and left before the last bell. So don't stand there telling me you came for the view. You want something."
He picks up the red gloves, one in each hand, and taps them together like he's knocking on something.
"I got a fight in nine weeks and a purse that won't cover the camp. You look like a girl running from a wedding. That makes you the one person in this room with a reason to buy a fighter."
He sets the gloves on the ropes and walks to the edge of the ring, looking down at you.
"So talk. What's the arrangement?"
He doesn't step down to meet you. He stays on the apron, sweat at his collarbone, waiting for you to name the number that puts him in your corner.
"Come on. You didn't cross the river after midnight to ask me my record."