The Sound of the Bell

They appeared in a hall filled with the press of bodies.

"That's Judge Torres. He's one of the commissioners," Luke said. "Where are we?"

It took a moment for the setting to sink in: the quiet tones, the chairs lined up in neat rows. Finally, Luke turned and saw the arrangements of flowers at one end of the room. He caught the gleam through a gap in the crowd and recognized it: a coffin. The lid was closed. Abascal's funeral. Perhaps a closed coffin was for the best; better to remember the face as it was before that fight.

He studied the display. Two vases of gladioli were probably provided by the funeral parlor. Carnation wreaths, the generic kind you got when you said, "Just send some flowers," hung on tripods or had been leaned against furniture legs and walls. One of them was probably from his office. A striking array of lilies held pride of place by one end of the casket. More tokens than he thought a man like Abascal would have.

"Sullivan!" Luke said, as a figure moved in front of them. "What the fuck is he doing here? Never mind. Poaching like he always does, I'm sure." He turned to survey the rest of the room.

There weren't any civilians. No grieving aunts or nieces lined up to touch the coffin and whisper farewell. None, in fact, that were paying any attention to the front of the room. Clusters of men, the occasional woman, huddled in small enclaves of private business. He could hear snatches of the conversations. Each spoke of deals, of see and be seen.

"Are you going to the interment?"

"Hell no. I came because I needed to press the flesh a few times. Screw watching that asshole go into the ground."

Abascal had been a brute, Luke thought. I dealt with him because he made everyone money. I didn't like him.

"Yeah, I told Emiliano I don't pad up my expenses like that," Sullivan said from behind. "I also promised him a fair cut on the merchandising. I think we'll land him."

Emiliano! Luke whirled back in outrage, ready to tear into the rival who was trying to steal one of his up-and-coming fighters. "You fucking asshole! What—" He broke off as neither Sullivan nor the man he was talking to reacted.

"Where is this?" he demanded of the specter. "Or when? I need to know. I need to be here ... there ... wherever and whenever this is."

The spector gestured toward the display of lilies. Luke could smell their sweet scent permeating the air. They were Caitlin's favorite flower. A sense of unease stole over him.

"Did Caitlin send those?" he asked.

The specter pointed at the lilies. There was a card.

"She barely knew him."

The specter pointed at the lilies and the card attached to them.

"What is Caitlin doing sending Abascal flowers?" Luke demanded, letting anger flood over the growing unease. "Show me!" The tone of voice was the one he used when speaking to some peon who didn't understand who was in charge.

The specter's head tilted, then its arm rose.

Luke realized this was a different time as well as place. The morning sky seen through the funeral hall windows had given way to fading light streaming in through larger windows. His lawyer, the personal one he trusted when he needed something done that wouldn't bear the full light of day, faced his wife.

"David," she said, "I'm not stupid no matter what opinion of me Luke has given you. I know damn well that there's money stashed around, probably a lot of it in cash. I also know damn well that Abascal's loss was the exact opposite of a disaster for Luke, which means there's even more coming."

His lawyer started to say something, to deny or reassure or dissuade. She didn't let him.

"Don't even start! As I said, I'm not stupid, and it's not the first time. The final thing I know is that the prenup is moot now. You're not the only lawyer, and I've been filled in on New York law regarding a spouse's rights when there are no children."

"Contesting a prenup can be quite difficult, Caitlin."

"She's leaving me?" Luke raged. "Yeah, good luck, Caitlin. David will eat you alive. That prenup will stand." He didn't expect her to react. He understood by now that these were just visions of the future.

"Yes," she replied, "but if it succeeds, I get a ton. However, David, you have full power of attorney because of all the crap you did for him. So," she said to the professionally blank face in front of her, "this is how I suggest it goes down." She drew a piece of paper from her purse.

"This is the realtor's estimate for the place here in New York and the place in Bal Harbor. I also documented our investments and what's in the accounts I know about. It's far less than I expected, which tells me something about what was coming my way." The look she gave the attorney was not a friendly one.

Luke was beside himself at the transformation in the soft, easily led woman to whom he'd been married.

"Finally, I put a reasonable value on the production company. Dismantle it, run it yourself ... hell, sell it to Sullivan."

"What the fuck! Sullivan? You can't—" He whirled to the specter. "She can't—"

The spirit was facing him. Once again, Luke felt the stare from eyes he couldn't see. They seemed to reach into the dim recesses of his memory and draw forth images in eidetic detail as if he were seeing them now. He saw hands in a hospital bed that were swollen and cut, but manicured underneath. The skin on them and around the eyes was fair, not honey-golden.

He saw who was at that funeral. People who wouldn't have come for a fighter. They'd have sent condolences and penned op-eds bemoaning something or other. Caitlin didn't even know Abascal.

He remembered the specter's first gesture ... north out the window of his Upper West Side apartment ... and his mind's eye re-created the nurse's name tag: Columbia University Irving Medical Center. Abascal was taken to Mount Sinai Beth Israel, much closer to Madison Square Garden.

He felt the terror wash over him like a tsunami.

"Oh my God, no!" The specter's head tipped in its regard. "Please tell me this is just a possible future, not something that's certain."

The specter pointed at the two talking and Luke tuned back in as Caitlin responded.

"... you buying me out for the total of these numbers. When you do that, everything else becomes yours, no questions asked. I'm betting that's a number bigger than even a shark like you's hourly rate. And David ..."

Something in her tone was like a dry rattle coming from behind a rock in the desert. The man she was facing was not impulsive by nature and heard it. He waited.

"No questions asked includes no mention of the four or five other companies I've learned about over the years. The ones whose sole purpose, I assume, is to launder some of that money I never see ... companies you set up and are a director for. Do they teach you about disbarment in law school?"

Words failed Luke as terror surged through him. All he could manage was a weak "When?"

Blackness overtook him. He wasn't taken far. They stood on the sidewalk outside a small café just down from the building they'd left. Whether passers-by sensed something dark and unconsciously shied away, or the corner formed by a jut in the building caused their paths to flow around, none of those hurrying figures passed through the two spirits.

Luke's eye caught the bright red dress Caitlin had been wearing in the attorney's office. She turned into the café. Through the plate glass, he saw her approach a small table with a young man already seated with his back to them. As she drew near him, she laid a hand on his shoulder. The man leapt to his feet and the two exchanged a light kiss on the cheek as if they were well-known friends.

"Who ...?" At his question, Luke and his guide flowed through the wall until they were standing beside the table.

"I was surprised you agreed to meet me," the man said, "let alone the invitation to the party."

"I was a married woman, Michael, and you made no secret of why you wanted to get together."

Now Luke recognized the man. He had been a fighter managed by one of the men Luke was closest to. He had been good, not all-time great, but good enough he could have had his moment in the sun with a little judicious finessing. The same mechanism would have him quickly back out of the spotlight, but he'd have been a surreptitiously richer man when that happened. The trouble was, he hadn't been a team player. He'd quit and become something boring and low paid. Luke couldn't remember what ... insurance? He'd been a waste of time and expense as far as Luke was concerned.

"And now?" the man asked.

"And now I'm not. What I am is a woman with money of her own, one who has always found you gorgeous."

The man flushed at that.

"So, since you seem to find this old woman the same, maybe we should do something about it."

"Oh my God, Caitlin! You're not old."

"I'm ... well ..." She gestured toward his glass of wine. "Let's just say that, unlike you, I've been legally drinking for over a decade."

"That's nothing and you're still a knockout. Being your partner would be a dream."

Caitlin fell silent, studying her tablemate. Finally, she shook her head.

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea, Michael. I have no intention of ever getting married again. Despite everything, I'm still someone who believes those vows mean something." She gave a bitter laugh. "But you know what they got me. The saving grace was I realized soon enough to prevent being bound even more tightly.

"So, never again. No man is ever going to have a say in my life. And no matter how attractive and adorable you are, that includes you. I have money now, a lot of it, and I'm willing to spend it on you. Quit your job, fly around the world with me."

The observers could see Michael process what was unsaid and arrive at a conclusion. The twist of his lips said it wasn't one he liked.

"As basically a gigolo."

She pursed her lips, then dipped her head. "If you want to put that label on it, then I won't argue. If that's unpalatable to you, then I'll be disappointed, but I'll understand. If you can forget the label and enjoy the lifestyle, I'm not Luke. I won't trade for a new model every year."

She gathered her purse and rose. She bent toward Michael. Luke knew that was no carelessness about her neckline. She'd done it to him in the early days, teased with a glimpse of the ring girl's breasts that had been the first thing that had caught his eye, clad only in the semi-transparent lace that she favored.

"If Marc Antony appears next to Cleopatra at the Boxers Ball tonight, I'll have my answer." She gave Michael a light kiss, this time on the lips, then dropped her voice so that only he and the watching apparitions could hear. "I was at some of your weigh-ins. Egypt will be quite happy to be conquered by Rome afterward."

Luke was fighting the fear, trying to guess how old Caitlin was so he'd have some clue as to when all this happened. That comment to Michael about her age ... Why couldn't she have been more specific?

At the same time, every fiber burned in a rage of jealousy. He was barely gone in this possible future—he had to believe it was only a possible one—and his wife was already inviting another man into her bed. A man, if he understood her words correctly, she'd fantasized about for some time.

The woman whom he'd married had disappeared somewhere. In her place was someone who had no hesitation in telling a man that she wanted to buy his youth: "I want a boy toy. Do you want the job?"

"She's changed," he said weakly. "She wasn't like this."

He looked at himself in the mirror on the café's wall, and it was hard to face that he taught her that lesson. He'd given a young woman here or there a taste of the rich life in return for her panties dropping. In reality, hadn't he done the same with Caitlin, just longer-term than some of those others? And Caitlin had found out and learned from the master.

"Spirit, how long do I have?"

There was no answer. Luke struggled to find some ray of hope in this whole thing, some point where he could start and work to avert this.

"Is there anyone in this world who feels anything other than greed about my death? Who isn't stealing from me?" said Luke. "If there is, show me."

The black robe flared out like a blanket, then withdrew to reveal an ordinary living room where a mother sat with two children. She was clearly waiting for someone, checking her watch frequently. Finally, a man Luke took to be her husband came in.

"Well," she asked, "is it good or bad?"

"I couldn't get to see him," he answered.

She broke into a small cry, causing the children, who didn't understand what their parents were talking about, to huddle closer in concern.

"But we'll get through it, hon," he said quickly.

"How? If he hasn't changed his mind by this point, he won't. And the interest will—"

"I couldn't see him because he's dead."

The woman froze. Her husband sat beside her and pulled her into the curve of his arm.

"He wasn't just avoiding my calls. He was in the hospital. Someone else will take over the note," he said. "These kinds of people don't forget. But it will take a while for it to be sorted. And by then we'll have it. Your brother has promised ..." His soft voice went on to describe how they'd manage.

Neither of them were the type to rejoice in another's death, even that of a man they didn't like. Luke could see the distress on their faces as they spoke of his passing, but it was a happier couple that went to the dinner table and two children whose unnamed fears were allayed.

Luke felt a tug of conscience. He knew who the man was, barely remembered what he owed. The motive for denying him an extension or a little forgiveness was to avoid setting precedent, not because the pittance would matter in Luke's life.

Even a goodhearted sap like this found a silver lining of relief in death.

"Death's just an opportunity for everyone, huh?" Luke said. "Especially my death. Doesn't anyone I know have an ounce of decent feelings over the fact that someone is dying?"

The blank visage turned his way. Once again, Luke felt weighed. With a wide sweep of its arm, the specter conveyed him to one more scene.

It was another hospital. This bedside, however, was not unattended. Luke knew every person in the room, from the sobbing woman to the man sitting with bowed head, his face gray and lined.

The wan, still figure in the bed was Thea Martelli. She was ten years old. Or had been. Looking at the silent monitors, Luke knew the disease had finally claimed her.

The two adults were her parents, Andrea and Jacob, and Jacob had been his partner for many years. They'd parted bitterly. To this day, Luke did not understand why Jacob had been so dense.

"Quitting isn't going to make her better, Jacob. Money's your best bet, if anything can change things. Make a lot of it and throw it at the problem. Hire the best. Hell, hire ten of the best. There are more fortunes to be made here; we both know that, and you'll feel like you did everything you could for her."

What had been said that day couldn't be unsaid. The disbelief on one side and the contempt on the other had escalated to harsher words. With final words of "You're a monster" and "You're a spineless fool to throw this away for what? A few more months, a year?" any hope of reconciliation fled and the men had parted.

In retrospect, Luke had declared he wouldn't change that history even if he could. It left him free to be everything he could be and to reap all the rewards solo.

And yet ... he remembered the first hospital bedside, vacant except for a contemptuous nurse and an indifferent doctor. Was there no one to mourn him? There wasn't. There was no imprint of him on the world, save for contempt and ill will.

His employees saw his corpse as something to be plundered, whether on the small scale of a Lamborghini or the large of ten million dollars. Or even more because David knew where all the money was hidden, and Caitlin had given him carte blanche as long as she got her cut.

Some of those thefts would destroy his legacy. No charitable fund could survive most of its capital seemingly embezzled by its founder. Luke felt his blood begin to boil. He'd made those two into wealthy men—not on his scale, but still wealthy—and this was how they repaid him. The prizes that would have kept his name alive in the boxing world forever would now be just another scandal.

That hurt more than the actual theft. The thought that it would all go poof with his death was intolerable. The real legacy, a son to carry on both the name and business, that had been denied him. He knew he wasn't sterile, but Caitlin had never gotten—

Her words to her prospective lover swam back: "I realized soon enough to prevent being bound even more tightly."

Not didn't get pregnant. She—

"No!" The shout did not disturb the grieving of the figures in the room. "She wouldn't've done that." Luke whirled toward his guide. "She knew how important it was to me."

The apparition stared at him silently, if a dark void inside a hood could be said to stare. Rage and sorrow ripped through Luke in equal measure.

"So, I'm just supposed to accept that everything's gone?" he spat. "The empire I've built stolen by thieves? My endowment for young boxers just a tabloid headline? Contempt every time someone mentions my name?" His eyes went to the grieving parents. "And no more chance to pass on a legacy than a muppet like Jacob there?"

The fire had died out by the last question. It was spoken in almost a whisper. Luke turned pleading eyes to the specter.

"I have to fix this. How much time ... I mean, when is all this?"

The question was barely out of his mouth before he found himself in his office. He stood in front of the grand mahogany desk he had accepted in lieu of a debt owed him. The specter's finger pointed to what lay on top.

His assistant had set the newspapers along with the latest issue of Boxing News neatly in the middle. The specter continued to point.

Luke found it hard to focus for fear. He reached for the top one and turned it to read, oblivious that this was the first time he'd been able to interact with his visions. It was the New York Daily News. He always liked to start his workday with the blaring front page they favored. It gave him a sense of the populist sentiment.

"King of the Ring Takes a Dive," it screamed. The smaller sub-headline read, "Terrible party plummet leaves survival in doubt."

"No!" The finger maintained its inexorable gesture, willing him to look more closely.

He forced himself to peer at the folio: October 31 a year away. But that was no relief. A year was a long time until it became a death sentence.

"Please, spirit," he begged. "Surely you wouldn't have shown me this if it was for nothing, right? I can fix all this. Just give me a chance!"

There was no response save the arm started to rise in a gesture Luke knew would carry them away again.

"No! We can't leave it like this." He caught at the arm with his free hand, attempting to stop its motion. It was cool to his touch, not the warmth of a human form, and too strong for him. Once again the musty smell of earth overwhelmed him. Only this time it didn't evoke mushrooms or a damp cabin. It evoked the raw soil of an open grave.

"NO!" he bellowed. "I can change."

Those words did what his futile grip had not, stopped the specter's gesture. Luke pressed.

"I can change," he repeated. "I can fix all this stuff. Y-you just have to give me some sign that this is just a warning!"

Though the specter said nothing, Luke sensed it waiting.