The Lost Angel Read Online Free PDF Page A

only get the belt, but thanks to our friends from the Drummond family, the Central City champion will receive five hundred dollars in prize money. So settle back and enjoy. Bets are being taken, so please see the amazingly beautiful broads at the ringside with your hard-earned green!” The announcer waved his hand towards the betting tables. The ringside eye candy was drawing the punters in from all corners of the old Gym.
    “Now, let me introduce tonight’s first fight. It's local combatants, the Southpaw Shotgun from North Castle… Jackie Queen, and Steve Drisco from Haverton. Straight after that, we have a debut match between Eddy Kovakx from Liberty City and the O’Neal club favorite Brian Banner.”
    The Show had begun and the excitement was at fever pitch. Eddy checked out the sea of people in the hall. Fishing for anything or anyone that might give him a clue. There might be a shooter lurking, or worse, a G-Man with a black-and-white outside, engine running. At last, the doors closed. The David and Goliath style fight got under way, experience over fresh meat. He didn’t expect it to last long. He was cannon fodder. But if anyone was looking for him this was good cover. The best place to hide was in plain sight, right under their noses.
    The time came and the first fight ended with a colossus K.O by the Southpaw Shotgun. Securing a three-nothing win. The crowd settled in time for Eddy’s fight. He climbed the three small steps into the ring. No introduction. No applause, just Eddy’s racing heart for encouragement. The two pugilists squared up to each other, face-to-face. His opponent, despite being the same weight looked a lot bigger.
    Ding-Ding
    Eddy took a few tentative paces forward, raising his second-hand gloves for the battle. He tapped his opponent’s back as the referee took over. Then they stepped sideways, circling once, twice...
    * * *
    Private Eye, Jack Malone, slumped in his leather office chair. He put his feet up on the frequently disorganized desk, knocking a handful of beer bottles off. He tipped his battered hat off his eyes and opened his desk drawer, pulling out a well-used Seagram’s whiskey bottle and a small glass that had defiantly seen better days. He filled the glass to the top and scratched his unshaven face. Stretched his arms behind his head, and then picked up the malted drink, raising it to his weary lips. “Happy Birthday, Jack.” He knocked it back, poured another and repeated the action. It was better than cake.
    Times had been hard for Jack, and for Malone Investigations and Bail Bonds. His business was drying up. No new cases had walked into his office in over a month, not unless you counted the bungled kidnapping of Frank Crystal by a trio of disgruntled former spouses.
    Jack’s shabby, creased brown pinstriped suit and the cluttered, dusty office were a sign of the times. No work, no money not even a dame on his arm. The ex-homicide detective walked over to a cracked mirror in the corner of the room.  The forty-five-year-old Central resident looked back at him. He looked old, tired. Thanks to the stress of the City, his hair showed more grey than usual. He wished he was the man he had once been, not the husk of the P.I. he was now.
    He looked back at the bottle of Seagram’s. As he turned to go for a third glass, a small manila envelope slid under his door. Jack hadn’t heard footsteps or noticed anyone approaching, although the frosted glass in his office door had seen better days. He put his glass down and went to retrieve the envelope. It was light, and it wasn’t cheap paper either which meant money. The ink was good quality too, a deep blue, cartridge pen if he had to guess.
    Inside was a note. Jack pulled it out then checked the envelope for anything else. He sat back down and placed the note in the middle of the desk. He looked long and hard at it, his well-trained eyes scanning every letter on the fold. He looked longingly at the note, at the whiskey