The Book With No Name (26 page)

Sanchez was ecstatic. He’d made a grand out of Peto’s swift annihilation of Hammerhead. All it had cost him was Peto’s entry fee and a fifty-dollar bet of his own at odds of twenty to one on Peto winning. If he’d had the nerve to put money on the monk winning in the first round he’d have had a lot more too. Not that he was too bothered. The monks owed him a favour. He had paid for their entry fee; with luck he could now exploit the gullible fools and get Peto to fight again and win in whatever round he told him to.

He could tell Kyle was grateful when he offered him a fifty-dollar share of his winnings. The monks had picked up a thousand dollars cash in prize money for Peto’s quick demolition of Hammerhead, grudgingly doled out in filthy notes by the ringmaster, but Kyle had happily accepted the extra fifty from Sanchez. They had obviously got a taste for money, and indeed for gambling, Sanchez thought. Men after his own heart. He could see these two weirdos becoming good friends of his. For a short while, at least.

Twenty minutes had passed and Peto had promptly despatched the new club fighter, a fairly average journeyman named Big Neil, who had been brought in to replace Hammerhead. Sanchez, who was now acting as both adviser and manager to the two monks, negotiated with the ringmaster so that Peto could fight on against all comers. Pretty soon, Sanchez, the monks and the ringmaster were picking the round in which Peto was to win. A group of punks looking to make a few bucks for themselves were despatched to place anonymous bets for them, and before they knew it Sanchez
and the two Hubal monks were quietly making a killing at the expense of the bookies.

Two hours seemed to pass in a flash as Peto demonstrated his full array of martial-arts techniques. By the time the young monk had defeated his fifth consecutive opponent, Sanchez was up by about twelve thousand dollars. Kyle had started off with a much smaller stake, but when his winnings had been added to the prize money Peto was accumulating they had made just over four thousand. Only another ninety-six thousand dollars to go before they had made all their stolen money back.

The problem they now faced was finding opponents. Most of the crowd had worked out that Peto was choosing when to win his fights; more importantly, they could see that he was winning them all with ease. In his five victories he had only actually been hit by his opponents three times. This meant that even though they were men who thought they were tough enough to land a hard punch, they had no stomach for wasting their chances against a man they couldn’t hit. But then, just when it seemed that no new challengers were going to come forward, one appeared. And he appeared in the most dramatic way imaginable.

As Sanchez, the monks and the ringmaster stood in the ring discussing the lack of opponents, there came a huge roar of engine noise from the back of the boxing tent. It was loud enough to silence the crowd, and every head turned to see a massive Harley-Davidson cruise through the entrance and into the tent. The crowd parted as the Red Sea had done for Moses and the Israelites. The bike was one of the good old-fashioned choppers, like those Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda had cruised around on in
Easy Rider.
It was well cared for, too. Its owner obviously loved it because it looked as good as new. The silver paintwork shone and the chromeplate gleamed, as if the machine had just come straight from a showroom, while the great V-twin engine was obviously tuned to perfection, for it purred like a contented cat.

For the locals in the tent, however, the Harley itself was
not half as exciting a sight as the man riding it. He was known well in these parts. The ringmaster recognized him at once and was quickly up in the centre of the ring, whipping the crowd up into a frenzy. There was plenty more money to be made, the day was still young, and the giant of a man riding the chopped Harley-Davidson was, quite literally, throwing his hat into the ring. A huge brown Stetson flew over the crowd and landed by the feet of the ringmaster, who picked it up and put it on in place of his top hat.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he howled into his mike, ‘will you please welcome the man we’ve all been waiting to see. The greatest living bare-knuckle fighter, the greatest the world has ever seen … The one … The only … Rodeeeeooooooo Rexxxxx!’

To say the crowd went crazy would have been an understatement. Kyle and Peto weren’t sure what to make of all the fuss, but like everyone else they had been pretty impressed by the man’s entrance. His Harley cruised on up to ringside, its rear wheel flicking up sand and dirt from the ground into the faces of everyone within a five-yard radius, before slowly drawing to a halt. Rodeo Rex revved the engine a few times more for the crowd’s enjoyment, before quickly shutting down and dismounting slowly so that everyone with a camera could get a picture of him.

And he was big.
Seriously
big. This was the largest man Kyle or Peto had ever laid eyes on. Every inch of him was muscle, his massive frame entirely devoid of fat. He wore a tight black Helloween T-shirt that was probably a couple of sizes too small; in fact, it was so tight that from a distance it looked like a large tattoo. He also wore a black leather glove on his right hand but, oddly, not on his left. His blue denim jeans were ripped at the knees and were tucked tightly into his half-length black boots. Once he was off the bike and on his feet it became clear just how big he actually was. He stood roughly six feet five inches tall with shoulder-length shaggy brown hair held in by a black headband that crossed his forehead. He looked as though he could have been a professional wrestler
on TV, only he was too scary-looking even to be one of the bad guys. Kids wouldn’t just be frightened of him, they’d have nightmares about him. Every night. In fact, even grown men might quite possibly have nightmares about this guy.

There was only one reason for Rodeo Rex to be in the boxing tent, and that had been evident from the outset. He jumped straight up into the ring, swinging his great frame over the ropes, and bounded over to the ringmaster, embracing him like a brother. He then grabbed hold of the microphone and greeted his audience.

‘You all come here to see me
kick some ass?
’ he boomed.

‘YEAH!’ screamed back the crowd.

‘Then in the immortal words of the great Marvin Gaye …
Let’s get it on! … Oh baby, let’s get it on!
’ he bellowed, waving his arms in the air.

The bookies were almost crushed under the stampede that followed. People clustered round them, shouting and holding twenty-dollar bills out to them. Not so many people were betting on Peto this time, and the bookies were offering all kinds of different odds.

Sanchez had seen Rodeo Rex fight before and although he thought Peto was absolutely mustard, he fancied Rex to win. Kyle could see this in the excited-kid look on the bartender’s face.

‘Is this man some sort of idol?’ the monk asked Sanchez who was grinning like a lovesick schoolgirl.

‘Nah,’ said Sanchez. ‘This guy’s the real thing. This guy’s a fuckin’ legend. I ain’t never seen him lose. An’ I tell you something else: I never will.’

‘How many times have you seen him fight?’

‘Fuckin’ hundreds, man. Back your friend Peto to lose. This guy could really hurt him.’

Peto overheard Sanchez talking to Kyle and came over to join in the conversation.

‘I’ll beat this person easily, Sanchez. Have you not been watching me fight? None of these men is a match for me. They’re all drunk or unfit, or both, and they lack the self-belief
required to beat me.’

Sanchez knew Peto was good, but he didn’t like the young monk’s chances at all against the giant bare-knuckle fighter. And besides, Sanchez loved Rodeo Rex – he was his hero. He liked Peto, too, but if the young monk beat Rex then it would shatter the invincible image that the great man had built up in Santa Mondega over the years.

‘You won’t beat this guy. You’re good, kid, but he’s the best. Do yourself a favour, back yourself to lose in the first round and then go down the first time he hits you … An’ stay down. You got me?’

Peto and Kyle dropped lightly down from the ring and walked away from the crowd, who were all straining to get closer to Rodeo Rex. They found a quiet spot just beneath their corner of the ring. Looking down at them, Sanchez could tell from the looks on their faces that they still believed Peto would win. He was right, too. Kyle and Peto saw this as a good opportunity to make a lot of money on the gambling side of things, something they had quickly come to enjoy. They spent a few minutes huddled together, discussing tactics, before Peto finally climbed into the ring and Kyle disappeared into the crowd to find a bookie. He returned after a couple of minutes and joined Peto in the ring.

‘Did you get the bet on?’ the latter asked, as they waited in their corner. Sanchez, worried, climbed down and set off to find one of the eager youths to place a bet for him.

‘You bet I did,’ Kyle winked. ‘And I got pretty good odds, too.’

To their surprise, just before the fight was due to start Rodeo Rex bounded over to their corner to have a word with his opponent. None of Peto’s previous opponents had done anything like this, and as a consequence both were extremely wary of what the big man might want.

‘You two are Hubal monks, right?’ The words that came from Rex’s mouth in a surprisingly civilized tone were completely unexpected.

‘Yes, that is right. How did
you
know?’ asked Kyle,
surprise making him sound unintentionally condescending. This was extraordinary. A man who looked as though he spent most of his time drinking, fighting and generally leading the very opposite of their ascetic lifestyle would not normally have heard of the Hubal monks.

‘Met your kind before. Good fellas. Very good fighters, too. Should be a good match.’

Peto was equally taken aback, especially by how well spoken this giant was. Well spoken and well educated in equal measure, it seemed.

‘Thanks. Um, when did you meet Hubal monks before?’ he inquired politely.

Rex took in a deep breath through his nostrils and then blew it out through his mouth, as if he was blowing smoke rings with fresh air.

‘Years ago now. I kinda guess you’re in town for the same reason they were back then.’

‘What reason is that?’ asked Kyle, intrigued to find out how much Rex actually knew.

‘Eye of the Moon. Been stolen again, I’ll bet. I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Maybe,’ said Kyle checking Rex’s expression for any sign that he might be trying to make fools of them. ‘How do
you
know about the Eye?’ Again, although he hadn’t meant to, he managed to sound condescending.

Rodeo Rex smiled. ‘Let’s just say we’ve got a common interest. How about we get together, go for a drink after the fight? I think maybe we can help each other.’

‘Sure,’ said Peto quickly. ‘We’d like to go for a drink, wouldn’t we, Kyle?’

‘Certainly,’ Kyle agreed. ‘We would be delighted to join you for a drink, Mister Rex.’

‘It’s just Rex. Or Rodeo Rex. Never Mister Rex.
Never.
’

Then, to loud cheers from the crowd, he bounded back across the ring to his own corner and raised his arms in the air in a pre-celebration ritual of his forthcoming victory.

Dante and Kacy had watched the fights with mounting interest since Hammerhead’s defeat. Kacy liked the little bald guy who had destroyed first him and then the five other opponents who had dared to challenge him. Dante wasn’t so keen. He wanted a bodyguard who was going to frighten people off just by his appearance. This wasn’t their man, and besides, something had started to bother Dante.

Actually, a couple of things were bothering him. Firstly, everyone in the boxing tent seemed to know each other in one way or another. Secondly, and far more importantly, it had occurred to him that there was more than one reason why he was beginning to dislike the man they called ‘Peto the Innocent’.

‘Kacy, look at that Peto guy and his friend who looks just like him. What d’you notice about them?’

‘Well, they look like each other,’ said Kacy, teasing him lightly.

‘Goddamit, I can see that. But what else do they look like? I mean, come on, two little bald guys wearin’ orange robes and baggy black pants. Doesn’t that say anythin’ to you?’

‘They’re colour-blind?’

‘No, babe. They’re monks. Look at ‘em. They’re fuckin’ monks. Tough bastard monks, too! I say we get the fuck out of here. These guys could be here to kill us. That nutty old lady said to get rid of that stone before we got ourselves killed. And so did Bertie Cromwell.’ The realization that, for once, Dante had been quicker than she to take caution set alarm bells ringing in Kacy’s head.

‘My God, you’re right,’ she paused for a moment in thought. ‘Unless maybe we can sell the necklace to them?’

‘No chance,’ said Dante, shaking his head. ‘The Prof seemed to think we could get a fair few thousand for it. You’ve seen how tough these monks are. If we tell them we’ve got it they’ll tear our heads off and take it from us. Let’s just lie low and then try an’ sell the stone at a jewellers or antique store tomorrow. Then we just get the fuck outta town.’