Caramarin didn't know what to expect as he walked up the lane. Looming up against the skyline, next to a stand of windswept trees, was a barn. Parked on poorly laid tarmac in front of the barn were a number of vehicles. Most looked old, run down and beat up.
However, a few high value cars stood out from the crowd. Like race horses in a field of donkeys. A few BMWs, a Mercedes. There was even a Bugatti bike. Caramarin checked the plates. Yes, there stood Hasanov's BMW next to a Transit that looked like it was held together with string and gum.
A few men stood about smoking and talking. They watched Caramarin approach. Inset in the main vehicle gate of the corrugated metal barn was a small open door. Bright light poured from the opening, darkly reflected in the oily puddles on the tarmac. One of the men stretched out his arm in front of Caramarin, blocking access. The man, a big bloke in a sweater made entirely of holes said something. No idea what – could have been a demand for payment to a comment about the weather.
Caramarin used up almost his entire English vocabulary. "Fuck you. Hasanov." The bouncer stepped aside. His phrase had worked.
Inside, the barn was brightly lit from fluorescents strung up from the ceiling rafters. Half hidden amidst the crowd of men was a raised area with ropes around it, like a crude boxing ring. A couple of industrial space heaters threw out enough heat to take the chill off the cavernous interior. Caramarin walked around the barn, looking for Engin Hasanov and his companion. At the far end stood some rusting tractors and vehicles.
The crowd of men was as varied as their vehicles outside. Most were scruffy, many were smoking furiously, blue smoke drifting upwards in the draughts. Some had enough gold jewellery to act as the bullion reserve for a small country. It had to be plated, he thought. To one side, tattooed thugs held attack dogs on short leashes.
However, there were some smartly dressed men also in the crowd. And Caramarin knew they were the most dangerous in the barn. The men to be feared.
Standing together in a tight knit group seemingly uniformed in black leather jackets and slacks were some darker skinned Europeans with black gelled hair. All were muscular and looked like they took no shit from anyone. He knew they had to be Albanians or Kosovans. One of the group looked at him and spat.
Caramarin walked around the crowd, avoiding eye contact. In a corner, away from the others, he saw Hasanov and Mihai Pojer talking together. Pojer had his shirt off and was wearing Disruptive Pattern Material camouflage pants. They looked up as Caramarin approached.
"You got the painting and money for me?"
"Later," said Mihai Pojer. "You've got to prove yourself first before we hand them over."
"What do you mean?" Caramarin said, though he had a damn good idea from the set-up what the man wanted.
"Fight for them," giggled Hasanov. "Why should we give up all that money just because 'Uncle' Timur wants it back? Prove you can take them from us."
Caramarin looked around. The men filling the barn looked tough and capable. No way could he make a scene here and expect to walk away in one piece from an illegal fight meeting. Caramarin never thought he was the hardest man in the world but he knew how to look after himself. He'd learned enough from knocking about the underworld and jails of eastern Europe over the last twenty years. There weren't too many people he was scared of meeting one on one.
"All right," he found himself saying. "But if... when, I win, no fuckin’ about. Just give me the Picasso and money. Deal?"
"For sure," said Hasanov, raising an eyebrow. "Thought that was understood."
"Better stick to it," Caramarin said.
Hasanov left to speak to the organisers and to place some bets.
Caramarin sat next to Pojer on a bale of straw. The man looked up.
"So, what's the score?" Caramarin asked in Russian.
"You fight one of them." he jerked his head dismissively towards a group of men covered in bling jewellery. "Show me your moves, what you can do. You win that, you get to fight me. Beat me, and Engin'll turn over that painting and money."
Caramarin looked hard at Mihai Pojer. The man wasn't doped up on steroid muscles but, like Caramarin, he had an athletic build and gave off an air of quiet confidence. Caramarin thought the man had seen military service in his past but he couldn't place him. Pojer spoke Russian with some sort of Middle Eastern or Caucasian accent.
"And if you win...what then?"
"Your ass is ours," the man said. "Don't worry – you'll probably be unconscious."
Engin Hasanov returned. "I spoke to the organisers," he said. "You're on first, Caramarin. Which gives you time to recover for later." His high pitched laugh really got on Caramarin's nerves. "If you want to place a bet, the odds are about fifty-fifty at the moment. You're an unknown quantity, you see."
Caramarin nodded and handed Hasanov most of his money. Why not? "Put that on for me, will you?"
"On yourself?"
"Of course. If I lose I guess I'll be in hospital for a long time."
Pojer led Caramarin to the ring. They ducked under the ropes. He felt very exposed standing in the ring with everyone staring at him.
"I'll act as your second, if you want. Take your shirt and shoes off," Mihai Pojer told him. "Apart from that, there are no rules. Okay?" As he did so, the cool air pimpled his bare skin. Caramarin flexed his muscles and stretched doing some rapid warm-up exercises.
A bell rang. Instantly, the crowd fell silent and gathered round the ring. A man, a tall gaunt man in black jeans and a t-shirt with a skull printed on it, and several metres of gold jewellery stepped into the centre. He started talking in English, his voice distorted through the mike. Caramarin had no idea what he was saying but caught his name and the word 'Romania'. There were a few cheers but mostly boos and hisses.
His first opponent climbed up. The crowd cheered and whistled. No prizes for guessing who had home support. The man clasped his hands above his head in a crude victory salute. Only then did he throw his smoke away, the sparks making a little firework.
The man was maybe a little older than Caramarin but was much heavier built with a pot belly. Crude tattoos ran over his torso under a mat of dark rank hair. But his arms were covered in slabs of muscle. A man used to hard manual work. Under the harsh glare, the man's heavy face showed the signs of rough living and too much alcohol. He grinned, showing a mouth full of rotten stumps of teeth.
The referee spoke into his mike. The bell rang. Caramarin was now totally focussed on his opponent. No, his sworn enemy for the duration. Caramarin raised his fists and bounced on the balls of his feet, weaving and swaying, waiting to test the other man.
The man lumbered towards him, swinging a clumsy hay-maker at him. If it had connected, Caramarin would have been knocked into the middle of next week. Caramarin sidestepped it easily enough. The man faced him and swung again. Caramarin let it fly past, feeling only the movement of air on his face. He bounced away, forcing the man to follow. Heard jeers and boos from the crowd but didn't care. Was only here to win, couldn't care less about their entertainment.
The man followed, swearing. Caramarin let him approach close enough to swing another ham-fisted hay-maker at him, and then planted his left into the man's belly. The man grunted and sour air whooshed out. The man caught Caramarin on the ribs with his left, but there was no real force behind the punch. Caramarin backed away again, bobbing and weaving. He'd learned the man was only dangerous with his right.
Caramarin had been in enough trouble in his time to know he had to be careful in a bare knuckle fight. Didn't want to break his own hand bones by hitting the man too hard on the head. He much preferred to go for softer areas, such as the stomach. But that didn't seem to worry his enemy, though. The man was definitely physically stronger but was no real fighter. He was a man who absorbed blows and almost certainly relied on a quick slugging knock-out to win his fights.
Caramarin dodged around the ring, covering as much ground as possible, trying to tire out the other man. He threw a couple of light punches with his left, just to keep the man on guard. The roar of the crowd was angrier. They'd come to see blood and they were disappointed. Well, tough shit on them. He jabbed at the man's face, making him recoil back. The man was definitely a slugger, not a trained fighter. His eyes signalled every move in advance.
With a roar, the man charged him, fists swinging wildly. Caramarin sidestepped and gave him two hard punches to the kidneys as he passed, then instantly stepped to the middle of the ring. The man roared with anger and pain, then wheeled about to face Caramarin.
A beer can sailed out of the crowd, narrowly missing Caramarin. Lager spilled out into the centre of the ring. The referee said something angry into his mike and kicked the can out the ring. However, his enemy took advantage of Caramarin's momentary distraction.
He slammed his iron hard fist deep into Caramarin's guts, knocking him backwards towards the ropes. Caramarin gasped with pain, staggering, needing to stay upright. If he went down he knew he’d be stomped half to death. The crowd roared and cheered, scenting victory for their man.
The man followed it up with a rocket launched at his face. Purely by instinct, Caramarin dodged out the way, but it felt like the blow had ripped off his ear. The pain was intense. Caramarin bounced back off the ropes and took another glancing blow to the side of his head. He stumbled on his feet. The noise from the crowd was deafening, echoing off the corrugated sides of the barn.
Caramarin shook his head. The man raised his arm, acknowledging their support. Caramarin came in hard and low; the man turned a split second too late and Caramarin slammed his fists; one, two into his stomach. The man doubled over, gasping. Pojer had said there were no rules. Caramarin slammed his knee into the man's groin. The crowd bellowed their anger.
The man sucked air in and tried to stand. Caramarin swung his fist up and connected with his jaw. The man reeled back and spat out a mouthful of blood and shards of teeth. Fuck, the man was tough. Caramarin didn't give him any time to recover. It would only take one lucky hay-maker to finish off the bout.
Recalling a trick from his Paratrooper days, Caramarin swung his right leg out, hooked it behind the man's left and brought him crashing to the wooden floor. The man's head bounced on the hard surface and his eyes glazed. He started to get up; Caramarin stooped and grabbed the man’s head. He smashed it several more times onto the wooden floor of the arena. The man slumped back; his head hit the floor one last time.
The big man twitched, his body made little uncoordinated movements.
Caramarin planted his foot on the man's chest. He'd won. The crowd booed, jeered and shouted rage. Probably most had lost a lot of money just now as the bookies looked pleased. Pojer helped Caramarin down and took him away to the safety of the farm vehicles at the back of the barn away from the crowd.
"You did well there," Pojer said. "Fought dirty but won. But you won't find me so easy."