The man screamed in pain as bone threatened to pop out of a socket or break at any second given the amount of pressure applied to it.
Ryan let up slightly and spoke into the trembling man's ear. "If you don't get off this stage and walk out of the Sweet Lash right now, I'm gonna break your shoulder. Do you understand?"
The man grunted in profound pain.
"I need an answer. Yes or no?"
This time the guy grated out a "yeah." Ryan turned him around and prodded him off the stage. No sooner had he released him, however, when the man whipped around, fist clenched, and aimed at Ryan's gut. Ryan palmed his fist, stopping it instantly, and served him a brisk left hook to the jaw. The man whipped around like a ballerina doing a pirouette. He caught the velvet rope on his face-first fall from the stage, landing heavily on the dingy floor.
Ryan hopped down next to him but apparently the man'd had enough. He scuttled up onto his knees, gripping his jaw as he staggered away, the golden rope catching on his legs and making him trip and fall facedown on the grimy floor. The crowd laughed uproariously and applauded Ryan.
Ryan saw his chance to escape the room and forced the guy to his feet, prodding him toward the exit. The jerk went willingly enough this time, but suddenly the henchman with the square jaw was there to take over, shoving the stocky man ahead of him and charging threateningly behind, herding him out of the brothel.
Ryan cursed softly under his breath when he saw Diamond Jack heading toward him. He glanced back and noticed that Mel was gently settling Betsey's robe on her shoulders, careful of the abrasions on the young woman's back. She regarded Ryan with a mixed expression of gratitude and open curiosity. A strange sense of familiarity went through him when he met her brown-eyed stare. She nodded once in wary thanks. She looked much older up close and Ryan realized she was probably twice Betsey's age.
Ryan gave an answering nod and turned around to await Diamond Jack. He honestly didn't know how the crime boss would react to him jumping up on the stage to protect the prostitutes, and Jack's set, cold visage gave nothing away. Some of the members of the seedy crowd had enjoyed the violent spectacle of the man beating the women, after all.
Ryan had seen some nasty business as a vice detective, but this was one hell of a depraved crowd. He supposed that made sense, because Diamond Jack was one hell of a scumbag.
He tensed when Jack reached for his breast pocket.
"Well, it looks like Shapiro finally sent us someone who knows what he's doing," Jack said as he withdrew a cigar from his pocket and handed it to Ryan. When Ryan refused to take the cigar, he merely shrugged negligently and shoved it in his own mouth. He spoke loud enough for Ryan to hear him but was careful to keep his voice from carrying to the crowd.
"I want to thank you." He nodded his head toward the stage. "I had the odds for the fight set at twenty to one. The last eight guys Shapiro sent over didn't last thirty seconds in the ring with Mario. Betting has been sluggish. Guys come for the blood," Jack explained as he tilted his head toward a man sitting at a raised podium at the far side of the room.
Indeed, dozens of men queued up and money was quickly changing hands. "Because of your little demonstration there, I've changed the odds to ten to one. Those guys think you might cause an upset."
"You think you know better, though, right?"
Jack gave him a viper-like grin before he plunged his own soggy cigar back in his mouth.
"I'll take a couple hundred bets on ten to one versus twenty on twenty to one any day."
"Course if Mario loses, you're not going to be so pleased," Ryan said quietly as he scanned the packed room.
"Sure, fella," Jack chortled around his cigar.
"Shapiro was a little hazy on the details, so I just wanted to clarify my pay before the match."
"Fifteen bucks cash at the end of the match," Jack replied briskly.
"And if I win?"
Jack removed his cigar although some of the tobacco remained clinging to his stained front teeth. His eyelids narrowed speculatively. "Alfie was telling me you've never seen Big Mario. I can tell from your accent you aren't just off the boat," Jack mused. "Where do you live?"
"Bridgeport," Ryan said. Surely the distinctively Irish-American, south-side neighborhood existed in 1906, didn't it?
"I've got some Irish in my background as well," Jack finally murmured after a moment of studying Ryan with his beady, dark eyes. "The prize purse for the boxing match is fifty dollars. That's a lot of money for a mick like you."
"What else?"
Jack's eyebrows went up at Ryan's hard tone. "I see Alfie's been talking again. Well, can't see there's any harm in it. Most of these men know I fire Mario's interest in fighting with the promise of sampling a young lady's charms upstairs. He enjoys the unplucked ones,"
Jack explained with a taut leer.
"So if I win the match, I'll be granted the same pleasure," Jack stated bluntly. He wanted Jack to put the deal into words.
"Like I said, you've got balls," Jack murmured. Ryan returned his stare unwaveringly.